


and love will find you

by ofherlionheart



Series: ripped at every edge, but still a masterpiece [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (sort of), 5+1 Things, Character Study, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Kent Parson, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofherlionheart/pseuds/ofherlionheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think I loved him,” Louisa is saying, and god, does Kent want to find this asshole and punch him a few times. Roger is bigger than him, but Kent could do it. Kent has a few months worth of rage tucked away, festering inside him until the right moment comes.</p><p>“I know, Lou-Lou,” their mother says, “and I know it hurts. But sometimes, people just aren’t ready for love. They love too much, or they don’t love enough, or they don’t love each other at the same time.”</p><p>----------</p><p>Fives times Kent was not ready for love, plus the one time he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i hope you make it to the day you're 28 years old

**Author's Note:**

> Several months ago, I first heard the song "Colors" by Halsey, and from the first verse I immediately thought of Kent, particularly in relation to Jack and reflecting on their time in the Q. Somehow, this monstrosity was born. (All chapter titles are excerpts of lyrics of the song).
> 
> Please let me know if there are any grammar/typing errors!
> 
> If there are any errors with timeline or the technicalities of being an NHL player, they are not intentional, and I apologize for any such mistakes; I only know so much.
> 
> Characters and anything else from the "Check, Please!" universe belong to the wonderful, darling Ngozi. Give her all the love, guys, she is amazing.

Kent never knew people could actually turn blue until he met Jack. They are sixteen, and it is the dead of winter, and for Canada, that means seven degrees Fahrenheit (“It’s negative fourteen Celsius,” Jack _corrects_ him, obnoxiously, and Kent shoves Jack and Jack shoves Kent and then they are wrestling on the floor). At night, the temperature drops to an unbearable low, whether it is Fahrenheit or Celsius, but that does not stop Kent and Jack from racing back and forth and around the Zimmermann’s homemade backyard rink.

It is Alicia who puts an end to their madness, coming out as far as the back porch, huddled in a thick, too-large flannel robe – it must be Bad Bob’s, Kent notes for no reason in particular. “Boys,” Alicia calls, half-amused and half-exhausted, “It’s almost eleven.”

“ _Ouais, Maman!_ ” Jack calls back. Kent takes advantage of Jack’s split second of distraction to steal the puck from him and zing it into Jack’s “goal” – two pylons with a spare stick laid across their tops as a makeshift crossbar.

Jack glides straight into him, and if Kent had not already been used to Jack doing that every day at practice, he would have fallen over solely because Jack is bigger than him. “Cheater,” Jack says, and Kent grins.

“You heard your mom,” he replies. “It’s _bedtime_.”

It takes them another twenty minutes, but they eventually get off the ice. They take care to be quiet as they reenter the house through the garage, but when Kent happens to glance in Jack’s direction, he exclaims a bit too loudly, “Dude! You’re _blue!_ ”

Jack looks up, eyebrows lifted in question behind his sweaty mop of unruly hair. “What?”

Kent reaches out and grabs Jack’s hand. “This is not natural,” Kent insists.

Jack’s fingers are cold, and sure, it was cold outside, but they were wearing their gloves. Kent’s hands are not that cold, and Kent’s certainly have never looked that blue, either. They are not blue like Kent can see Jack’s veins clearer; no, it looks more like there is a thin layer of deoxygenated blood just beneath Jack’s skin, and the color extends almost all the way to his wrists.

Jack still seems confused. “Doesn’t that ever happen to you?”

“No way. My circulation isn’t that fucked.”

Jack pulls his hand out of Kent’s to shove Kent’s face away from him. “ _Va chier_ ,” he says, but he is smiling.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Zimms. They match your eyes.”

Jack whips his glove at Kent’s head, and Kent ducks, laughing.

* * *

They always share a bed when they are at each others’ houses. Well, not a bed – if they are at the Zimmerman’s, they spread out on the monstrous couch in the basement, and if they are at the Parson’s, they drag every blanket and sheet they can onto Kent’s bedroom floor.

The first time they share a bed on the road is a complete accident. They have come along far enough in their relationship that they have slept together, and there is no longer any hesitation around that – when they win, the instant their hotel door is closed, they grab each other and sometimes have the patience to take off their clothes. But something different happens, this time. 

Kent does not even know whose bed they end up in, but when he wakes, he is sweating a disgusting amount and Jack is curled around Kent from behind, his hips pressed against Kent’s and his nose squashed, in what must be an uncomfortable way, against Kent’s shoulder. Kent tries to scoot away, but Jack immediately tightens his arm around Kent’s waist, so Kent uses his elbows to jab his way free.

Jack grunts, waking up and letting Kent roll away. “Parse,” he whines.

Kent responds with an unintelligible noise and stumbles to the bathroom. When he is done, Jack is waiting just outside the door, and he reaches out a stupidly long arm to catch Kent around his bare waist. Kent begins to groan, irritated because he woke up so sweaty, but when he looks up at Jack, his face is soft and easy and his eyes are blue. Jack curls over slightly, and Kent reaches up to kiss him. Jack’s breath is awful, but Kent does not mind.

He is the first to pull away, though. “Brush your teeth,” he says.

Jack pulls him in closer to purposely breathe right on his face, and Kent pushes Jack away with a laugh. “Fuck you,” Kent says with naked fondness.

They are both cleaned and clothed within five minutes, far too used to mornings when they wake at 4:45 AM and are on the bus by 4:50, but this morning, they are not leaving until 11. They take their time walking down to team breakfast, bumping shoulders and brushing the backs of their hands together. Kent’s irritation from this morning has completely faded, and he feels content. 

They have their next game in four days. It is almost terrifying, how soon the end of season is. They know, by now, that Jack’s going first; the only way he would not is if he were to have some freak accident, but Kent is not going to think about that. Jack not playing is unthinkable, nearly as unthinkable as playing on a team without Jack – but then again, that is exactly what Kent is going to do by this time next year.

They reach the dining area. Half of their team is already there. “Eggs?” Kent asks.

Jack nods. “Grab my drink?”

“Obviously.”

They split, and Kent misses Jack’s heat at his side.

* * *

It takes Kent a stupidly long time to realize Jack’s been taking too much. Sure, Kent knew that Jack had meds, but it was a legitimate prescription, so it never occurred to Kent that he had to be worried about it – not until one day, Jack returns to the bench after the opposition scores and he has this vacant half-smile on his face.

“The fuck you smiling about?” Kent asks, just on the wrong side of too aggressive. He is still pissed about the goal.

The smile melts away, Jack’s eyebrows pinching together. “What?” he asks, calmer than he usually is when Kent snaps at him.

His mellow tone is enough to make Kent pause and really look at him. The edge of his fringe reaches past the rim of his helmet, just to his eyebrows, and rivulets of sweat drip from his forehead and down the straight ridge of his nose. There is something off around his eyes, though, and the set of his mouth – and, fuck, that dopey smile is sliding back into place.

“What the fuck, Zimmermann?” Kent says, quietly and urgently. “Did you take Abby’s pot?”

“I’ve never smoked.”

Which, 1) is a lie, because Kent and Jack once stole a pack of Jack’s uncle’s Marlboros, and 2) Jack is blatantly not answering Kent’s real question. Jack and Kent are _JackandKent_. They know when one question is actually another question.

It must finally get through Jack’s spacey head that Kent is worried; he shakes his head and says, barely audibly, “I’m fine, Parse. I know what I’m doing.”

Kent scowls and gnaws on his mouthguard. “Gotta get that goal back,” he says, deciding to deal with this _whatever_ with Jack later.

* * *

Later happens to be too late.

* * *

He pulls on a black and white sweater underneath the harsh spotlights of a nationally televised stage, his forehead breaking out in a thin layer of sweat, and he does not think about Jack sitting propped up on a hospital-looking cot in a room with soft green walls. He does not think about the nightmare he had just last night, the same nightmare he has been having for weeks on end now, and sure, Kent was not the one who actually found Jack, but Kent has seen the inside of Jack’s bathroom. He has seen the pills. He has seen Jack’s hands when they are bluer than should be possible. It is not that hard for his subconscious to string those images together into the perfect bad dream.

What scares Kent is how much he _aches_ for Jack. Those last few weeks at Rimouski, Kent felt like he had been playing with a limb missing, and while it only took him a game to adjust to being a center, he still has not adjusted to Jack’s absence. And Jack has left a gaping hole in other areas of Kent’s life – hell, in all the areas. Kent keeps wanting to reach out and jab Jack’s ribs with an elbow, keeps expecting Jack to come out of nowhere and drape himself like a wet rag over Kent’s back, but that is not happening right now. It will probably never happen ever again, Kent realizes, and his eyes get itchy and wet whenever he thinks about that, so Kent pulls a page from his deadbeat father’s book and blocks out everything that makes him hurt – everything that reminds him of the ways he might have fucked up. The ways he might have helped.

He revels in sleeping alone at night, because then he can break down and cry for a bit, but he also dreads it, because the cold sheets contrast sharply with the warm memories of Jack sharing his bed with him.

* * *

It is midsummer, a couple weeks before Kent is flying out to camp, when Louisa comes home and slams the front door behind her. She drops her bag on the floor, then goes to the family room and flings herself into the lumpy, too-old armchair.

“Hi, Louisa!” their mom calls from the kitchen. “How was camp?”

Louisa slaps her hand over her mouth and bursts into tears.

Kent is up in an instant, abandoning his phone to crouch in front of his little sister. “Lou-Lou? What happened?”

Louisa shakes her head, sucking in a wet breath and squeezing her eyes shut.

Kent’s mother appears, wiping her hand on her apron, her eyebrows lifted with concern. “Louisa? Honey, what happened?”

Louisa lifts her hand from her mouth and uses it to wipe her tears from her cheeks. “Mom,” she asks, voice wobbling, “have you ever had your heart broken?”

Oh, no. The _boyfriend_ fucked up. “What did Roger do?” Kent demands. He _knew_ that impertinent ass was no good for his baby sister.

“No!” Louisa says, a tinge of desperation in her voice, “Kenny, don’t –"

“It’s okay, honey, Kenny isn’t going anywhere,” their mom reassures Louisa.

“He broke up with me,” Louisa says with a sniffle, “because this entire time he’s had a girlfriend back home.”

Kent shifts to sit on his bottom, folds his arm on top of Louisa’s leg, and props his chin on top of his arm. His mother sits on the armrest of the chair and brushes back Louisa’s hair. “Oh, honey,” she says sadly.

“I can go beat him up,” Kent suggests.

Louisa shakes her head, but her lips twitch into the semblance of a smile for a second. “I – I kind of knew. Like, I felt like something wasn’t right. But … it still hurts.”

Their mother says something, but Kent does not hear it, suddenly distracted by everything he has felt in the last six months, and almost immediately he is annoyed with himself – here he is, distracted by _Jack_ when his baby sister has just had her heart broken for the first time.

“I think I loved him,” Louisa is saying, and god, does Kent want to find this asshole and punch him a few times. Roger is bigger than him, but Kent could do it. Kent has a few months worth of rage tucked away, festering inside him until the right moment comes.

“I know, Lou-Lou,” their mother says, “and I know it hurts. But sometimes, people just aren’t ready for love. They love too much, or they don’t love enough, or they don’t love each other at the same time.”

“That sucks,” Louisa pouts.

“I know,” their mother says again. “But one day, Louisa, you’re going to find love, and love is going to be ready for you.”

She bends down and presses a kiss to Louisa’s forehead before returning to the kitchen.

Louisa looks at Kent and cracks a smile. “Am I making you cry?” she asks, almost amused.

Kent inhales deeply, trying to steady himself. He is not going to let his tears fall. “No, I’m not crying,” he lies.

“You big softie,” Louisa says, then leans over and wraps her arms around Kent’s neck.

Kent turns his face into his sister’s hair. She smells like sunscreen and lake water. “I can still go fight him,” Kent says. “For your honor, or whatever.”

A laugh bubbles up out of Louisa’s throat. It sounds wet, which is kind of gross, but she sounds a bit happier when she says, “You’d lose, Kenny.”

Kenny squeezes his sister tighter, even as his mother’s last words ring in his head. _You’re going to find love, and love is going to be ready for you_.


	2. you're dripping like a saturated sunrise

Kent does not except it to happen so soon. Maybe a year seems like too long for some people, but for Kent – well, he is amazed by his … his turnaround? It feels like the wrong word, but he does not know what else to call it.

* * *

The kid shows up to camp with a diploma from Quinnipiac and two years of NCAA captaincy. He is well over six feet tall, so of course his name is Matthew Short, and once camp ends and Matthew is officially made part of the Aces roster, Romi immediately starts calling him Shawty. The kid just smiles and looks at his feet, and really, Kent should stop referring to him as _kid_. Shawty is several years older than him.

Kent does not have much to do with Shawty. Kent centers the first line, Shawty is a winger on the fourth, and honestly, Kent is not the type to go out of his way to acclimate the new kids – that is the captain’s job, and Karpo is doing a good job with that. Plus, Karpo has been in the league for ages. Experience is wisdom, and whatever.

The first time Kent really gets to interact with Shawty is when Kent is roped into doing an Aces’ publicity spot. Usually, Kent is good at avoiding these things, but one of the new PR interns, Elijah Jones, begs Kent to do it. Literally, begs – Eli is about to get onto his knees when Kent finally caves, reaching out to grab Eli’s elbow and keep him from going down. “Fine,” Kent relents, and Eli gives him a triumphant smirk.

Kent shows up with two minutes to spare and is directed to a chair next to Shawty, who has awkwardly packed his long limbs into a compact, normal-person sized area around his chair. Kent takes his seat and sprawls all over the place, just to be a dick. “What are we doing?” he asks.

“Trivia against Karpo and Dan,” Shawty answers. He sounds nervous, for some reason.

Kent raises his eyebrows. “Pitting the young ‘uns versus the oldies, eh?” Kent asks.

Shawty grins. “You’re not Canadian.”

Kent shrugs. “Spent some time in Rimouski,” he says shortly.

Shawty nods, and Kent briefly wonders if Shawty knows more about Kent than Kent does about Shawty. It is weird, sometimes, to realize that some people have been following Kent (and _Kent and Jack_ ) for years before Kent has met them. Thinking about that for too long usually sends Kent into a mental spiral, though, so Kent pushes the thought aside and shifts his weight. “What type of trivia is this?” Kent asks.

“NHL, of course.”

Kent grins. “Studied up on your stats, Shawty?”

Shawty smiles back, a bit sheepish. “I know a lot about the Islanders.”

“Ah, we’re fucked.”

They actually do all right. Shawty’s expertise extends beyond the Islanders (and, really? The Islanders? Shawty is from _Pittsburgh_ ), and between the Zimmermanns' and his own knowledge, Kent has several decades of stats stored in his head. They still lose to Karpo and Dan, but Shawty joins Kent in ribbing them about how old they are, so Kent still has a fun time. At the end of it all, Kent grabs Shawty’s phone and creates a contact for himself. “If you’re ever bored,” Kent says, and Shawty grins. His smile is no longer shy, and damn, he should do that more. The dimples really suit him.

* * *

Another few weeks pass, and Kent does not hear from Shawty until a particularly shitty home loss to the Avs. Kent hits the showers and is gone before the majority of the press has even migrated toward the locker rooms, and Kent is planning on making a quick getaway until he gets a text from an unknown number. _It’s Short_ , it reads. _Got plans?_

Kent groans and drops his head onto the steering wheel of his car. He wants to be grouchy and pissy, and he does not really want to deal with _people_ , in general, but – but Shawty is his teammate, and he actually likes Shawty, now. He does not want to be an asshole.

 _I’m in the garage_ , Kent replies. _Be here in fifteen or I’m leaving_.

Shawty shows up in eleven minutes, and Kent is suddenly glad he was generous and said fifteen instead of ten. Yes, his original plan was to stew alone, but now that Shawty is awkwardly folding himself into Kent’s passenger seat, Kent is glad to have company. He feels slightly less pathetic, that way. “How’s the shoulder?” Kent asks when Shawty is buckling himself in.

Shawty shrugs and rolls the shoulder in question. He injured it a couple times in college, and it got crunched against the boards today when he got hit by the Avalanche’s goon. “It’s fine,” Shawty says, and Kent nods before starting the car and pulling out of his parking spot.

The drive to Kent’s apartment takes almost half an hour, and Kent is reminded that he usually does not jet right after games so he can avoid the outward-bound spectator traffic. By the time they enter Kent’s front door, it is nearly midnight, and Kent just wants to crash. He manages to keep his eyes open long enough to grab two beers and turn on a movie, but after that, he is out like a light.

He wakes sometime around four in the morning, a kink in his neck from sleeping lopsided on the couch. His mouth tastes like something died it in, and with a grunt, Kent sits up. Damn, his neck _really_ hurts.

Sitting up gives Kent the angle he needs to see Shawty, and geez, Shawty must have been more tired than Kent thought he was, because the giant is conked out on Kent’s other couch, his mouth halfway open and his long arms wrapped around a throw pillow. Kent quietly gets up and goes to his bathroom to brush his teeth – his own saliva really _is_ that unbearable right now – but when he comes back, he cannot be bothered to change his clothes or clear away the beer bottles, so he settles for turning off the TV before returning to the couch he had passed out on. Kent will reassume his adult responsibilities tomorrow morning, and in any case, he would not want Shawty to wake up alone in the morning, so who cares about Kent’s bed. The couch is not the most uncomfortable place where Kent has slept before.

* * *

It becomes a tradition that Kent hates to partake in, mostly because if Shawty is crashing on his couch, that means they lost spectacularly due to some very unspectacular playing. But Kent also gets to know Shawty better, up to the point that when the Aces go out to celebrate a good win, Kent will spend more time with Shawty than with Romi or Dan.

Shawty prefers teriyaki wings to buffalo wings, and he always laces his right skate before his left, and whenever Kent forces him to try some fruity-ass cocktail, he makes this pinched expression that causes his nose to scrunch up and his lips to twist until Kent can see the dimples of his right cheek. Shawty is most definitely the least flexible guy on the entire team, but he can shoot billiards and throw darts as well as Karpo can. When Romi asks Shawty about it one time, Shawty merely smiles and says, “You learn a thing or two during spring break bar crawls,” and Romi cackles and smacks Shawty’s back.

Kent does not realize what is happening until he is Skyping Louisa in late February about their mother’s upcoming birthday. Louisa has sent him a link to some terrible bachelorette party gifts (all Parsons are known for their asshole-ish sense of humor), and Kent smiles when he sees a bright pink, pocket-sized cocktail recipe book on the website. He takes a photo of it and is about to text it to Shawty when Louisa asks, “Why are you smiling like that?”

Kent freezes. “What?” he asks, looking up at Louisa. “What do you mean, ‘like that?’”

Louisa shrugs, unconcerned. “You seem very amused,” she remarks, “like you’re about to share what _you_ think is a clever inside joke with someone.” Louisa props her chin on her hands. “Is there someone you want to tell me about?”

God, shit, _no_ , Kent thinks, even as Shawty’s face flashes in his mind’s eye. “Hey, Lou-Lou, I gotta go,” Kent says, his heart rabbiting in his chest. Louisa starts spouting protests, and Kent is quick to say, “I’m sorry, I love you, I’ll call you back tonight, okay? I love you,” before ending the call and shutting his laptop.

Holy shit. How did he not notice what was happening?

The rational side of Kent says it is not _all_ that shocking that Kent did not notice another goddamn _crush_ sneaking up on him – after all, with Jack, Kent failed to realize exactly what he was feeling until that one night when they ended up with their hands down each others’ pants on the floor of his bedroom in his billet family’s house. But then again, it has only been a year – a year and a half at most – since Jack’s overdose, and whenever Kent thinks too much about Jack and his pills, or his blue hands, or the grayness of his expression when Kent visited him in the hospital that one time, Kent still feels a terrible aching throb in his chest. The wounds on his heart have not yet healed. So how the hell does Shawty’s smile manage to raise heat in Kent’s cheeks?

For the first time, Kent suddenly wishes his mother knew about him and Jack. How could he explain everything that is sitting in his chest to her, Jack and Jack’s pills and Shawty and Shawty’s dimples, when she does not even know that Kent likes boys? Sure, his mother has not had the best luck with love, but she always seems to know what to say.

Kent is glad that they do not have practice tomorrow, because then he does not feel guilty about spending the rest of his day shut up in his bedroom, lying naked under his sheets. He cannot calm down enough to fall asleep until 2 AM, and when he wakes at noon the next day with gritty eyes and a growling stomach, he has several text messages from Louisa and one from Shawty. Feeling like a terrible, irresponsible brother, Kent momentarily ignores the texts from Louisa in favor of staring at Shawty’s message.

_Morning run + Denny’s?_

It is yet another habit that Kent has unwittingly fallen into with Shawty, and God, why is he so good at falling for his friends? Usually, in the rare event that he sleeps in late, Kent will shoot off an apology text to Shawty, but right now, Kent is far too frazzled to take any action. He is instead preoccupied by another question:

What the hell is he going to do?

* * *

Fate has it, Kent does not have to decide, and he feels like the world’s biggest asshole for being relieved about not having to chose.

Only two weeks after his revelation, the Aces square off against the Bruins at TD Garden. The Bruins are physical, and that is a known fact – has been a known fact across the league for decades, now – but the Aces are still thrown off-balance in the first period. Between periods, the coaches give them a stern talking to, Karpo puts on his sergeant voice, and even Kent yells a little bit, and they go into the second a bit stronger, despite trailing by three goals.

The moment it happens, right as Kent’s line is coming on, everything, in a very clichéd way, slows down, and Kent sees all of it:

Shawty is coming off the far wall, moving towards the bench as Romi and Kent are hopping onto the ice. But Dan does not realize that Shawty is changing, so he sends the puck down the ice towards Shawty. Kent shouts, and Shawty gets his head up, but not soon enough, and there is a Bruins defenseman, and – _is that hit even legal?_

Shawty is plowed, bad shoulder first, into the boards, and he goes down like a sack of bricks.

Everything speeds up again. For a few moments Kent sees nothing but red, but he must have done something stupid like rush the Bruins guy because next thing he knows, he is flat on his back and getting a penalty. Romi helps Kent get up and get over to the penalty box as Karpo and Chara do their best to keep their teams separate, but Kent only has eyes for Shawty. _Please, no_ , Kent thinks.

It does not look good. Sure, Shawty is still conscious, and they do not take a trainer onto the ice, but Shawty spends a good minute or two sitting with his back against the boards, holding his left arm with his right and gritting his teeth. When he eventually stands, with the help of Romi and Karpo, he bypasses the Aces bench and heads straight to their lockers, still cradling his arm with his helmet strap undone.

Once Kent has served his penalty minutes, he comes zipping out of the box, but no matter what he does the rest of the game, he cannot score. No one on the Aces can, and they go down 5 – 0. Kent sits through the coaches’ lecturing, and he takes it all in (his mind, after all, never quite blocks out the hockey in his life), but as soon as they are done, Kent strips out of his gear and tries to leave in search of the trainer’s room.

He is stopped at the door by Karpo. Irritation flashes red in Kent’s mind. “I’m just checking on –"

Karpo shakes his head. “They took him to the hospital,” Karpo says, and Kent’s blood runs cold.

That cannot mean anything good.

* * *

They are forced to leave Shawty behind in Boston. No one official is saying anything, and Kent is freaking the fuck out in the back of his mind – what went so majorly wrong that Shawty had to immediately be taken to the hospital? – but he does not badger the coaches or management, nor does he text Shawty, in the off-chance that he has access to his phone. They go to Carolina and pull an OT win over the Canes out of their asses, and Kent contributes nothing to the victory. His general level of worry increases, because clearly, not knowing about Shawty is screwing with his headspace, and Kent needs at least a half-way level head to play well.

They fly home the night of the OT win, and Shawty is still in Boston. Kent manages a few fitful hours of sleep on the plane and then another couple at home before his cell phone rings. The caller ID displays the name of the only person Kent has been thinking about for the last forty-eight hours, and Kent immediately picks up. “Hey,” he says, though it sounds more like a question.

“Hey.”

Kent immediately hears how drained he sounds, and something tells him that it is not just physical pain and exhaustion that has gotten Shawty to this point. “What’s up?” Kent asks, swallowing the lump building in his throat.

Shawty does not answer right away. “Uh. I’ve called Karpo, gonna call some of the other guys, before the GMs or anyone tells you …”

He trails off, and silence hangs until Kent prompts, “Verdict?”

Shawty inhales deeply. “You know I fucked up my shoulder a couple times in college?” he asks Kent. “It was all ligament and tendon crap that I got over well enough, so I’ve never had to had surgery or anything. But …”

He takes another long breath, and Kent already knows what Shawty’s going to say. As an athlete, you can break bones and tear muscles and still come back pretty well, but ligament and tendon damage, especially cumulative damage, is much worse.

“Rest of the season is shot, then?” Kent asks.

Maybe Shawty being out for the rest of the season will be good. Kent will not see him as much, so Kent will get over this stupid _whatever_ , and Shawty will be back by the summer. And then the team will be good and Kent will be good and Kent can go back to doing his hockey and getting over Jack and he will have a _friend_ , Shawty, by his side. Except:

“I’m not coming back, Kent.”

* * *

Shawty is released from Boston a week later, and Kent is among the handful of teammates who meet him at the airport to help him get home. His left arm and shoulder are in some ridiculously complex sling, and Shawty explains to Karpo, upon prompting, exactly what happened to his shoulder when he got boarded, but the medical jargon is so complex that Kent does not understand half of if. Karpo does, but his only reaction is to shake his head gravely.

Kent keeps himself removed, for the most part, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt and wearing his snapback the right way around, the brim pulled lower than usual. He offers Shawty a fist-bump and pats him on his good shoulder when Shawty comes around to him, but otherwise, he is quiet. He cannot quite wrap his mind around the idea that Shawty is never going to play hockey ever again. If that happened to Kent … well, Kent might explode. Hockey is his everything. He would not die for it, but he sure as hell would do everything he could to live for it.

They get Shawty to his Vegas home, which he shares with a couple of the rookies on the AHL team, but only a week later, Kent and the airport welcoming committee are back there, packing up Shawty’s things in boxes addressed to Pittsburgh. Shawty has decided to move back in with his parents, for a little while, until he heals and figures out what he is going to do with his life.

“That degree’s gonna be some use, now,” Romi comments, and Shawty automatically smiles. 

It is not quite wide enough to reveal his dimples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Matthew Short's nickname is awful. Forgive me.


	3. a vision in the morning

“Kent! There you are!”

Kent opens his eyes, and from his peripherals, he can see Eli standing in the doorway to the training room. Kent groans and makes to bury his head in his arms, but Eli strides in, saying, “Nuh-uh, Kent, you’re not hiding from me any longer.”

“You can’t corner a man when he’s stuck heating his back,” Kent retorts, his voice muffled by his arms. “That’s cruel.”

“The PR department is kind of like the CIA, or the FBI,” Eli replies, ignoring Kent’s childish grumpiness. “You can’t hide from us forever.”

“That’s a terrible analogy.”

“I know. But I have you here, now.”

Kent sighs and turns so his cheek rests on his folded arms and he can see Eli. “What do you want?”

Eli leans against the bench next to Kent’s and folds his arms. He is lean, especially when Kent is used to being around larger-than-the-average-human hockey players, and Kent is momentarily distracted by wondering if he could loop his thumb and pointer finger all the way around Eli’s wrist. No, he could not, Kent decides, Eli is not _that_ thin, and Eli finishes his sentence with, “ – it’s in a week, and we want you to have a date.”

Kent’s focus snaps back into place. “A what?”

“A date, Kent.” Eli sighs and unfolds his arms to stick his hands in his pockets. “We know you’re a private person, so you don’t have to bring a real date –" He cuts himself off, frowning. “That sounds wrong. You have to bring an actual person –"

“Kit is going to be devastated.”

Eli lifts an eyebrow. “The cat you got last year?”

“Yeah.”

“There has to have been a weirder way to celebrate getting captaincy,” Eli mutters, and Kent grins. Eli inhales and presses on. “Regardless, you need a person with you, as a date. It’s black tie, we want everyone paired up, et cetera, et cetera. Can you do that?”

Eli stares him down, and Kent stares right back up at him. “I can bring my sister,” Kent finally yields.

Eli breaks into a smile. “That’s my man,” he says, then pats Kent’s forearm and takes off. “Crush the Sens, all right?” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves the room, and Kent rolls his eyes. 

* * *

“I can’t,” Louisa tells him later that night (after they destroy the Senators, thank you very much), and Kent barely keeps himself from whining.

“Why not? I can get you a plane ticket. You can have my bedroom.”

“Kenny, I have a huge project due that weekend.”

Kent sighs. “Do you think Mom could fly out?” he tries.

“She has work.” There is a beat of silence, and then Louisa asks, “Why do you need one? This is like a fundraiser thing, right?”

“Charity fundraiser,” Kent confirms.

“Haven’t you gone without a date before?”

“Yes,” Kent groans, “And the PR department is being a bitch about it.”

Louisa laughs, and Kent pouts. Kit chooses that moment to meow pitifully at the edge of Kent’s bed, so he rolls over and dangles his arm over the side of his mattress until Kit walks onto his hand. She is still tiny, even if she is almost a year old.

“You’re twenty-two, Kenny,” Louisa says, “You seriously cannot find a date?”

He pulls Kit onto the bed, and she happily bats his nose. “No one good enough for me,” Kent jokes. He thinks he manages to come off light-hearted.

He can imagine Louisa’s eye-roll. “Let me know the next time you need a date, though, okay?” she says. “If you’re still single, I’d love to go. I miss you.”

Kent scratches between Kit’s ears, and she purrs, curling up against his chest. “Miss you too, Lou-Lou,” he replies, smiling at the dumb rhyme he says at the end of every phone call. He presses his nose against the top of Kit’s head and tells himself he feels okay.

* * *

Kent slinks into Eli’s office the next day after practice. The other man is leaning back in his chair, his eyebrows lowered as he looks at something on his phone.

Kent grins and raps on the doorframe. “Getting distracted on the job?”

Eli looks up and smiles when he sees Kent. “Actually, I am working,” he says. “I’m keeping tabs on your teammates’ Twitters.”

“Really?” Kent replies, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. “How do I know you’re not texting your girlfriend?”

“First of all, because it’d be a boyfriend,” Eli says, and it takes a second for Kent to realize what Eli has said, and then Kent feels a sharp stab of jealousy at the ease with which Eli essentially just came out to him. “Secondly –"

Eli turns his phone towards Kent, and yup, he is on Twitter. Romi’s twitter, specifically, and there’s a re-tweet of Kent’s tweet about Kit Purrson’s latest Instagram post. “Your cat is kinda cute.”

“My cat is the fucking cutest.”

Eli pulls his phone back and sets it facedown on his desk. “You don’t usually come here on your own,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

Kent comes in and taps his fist on Eli’s desk. “You’re obviously not an intern, any more,” he comments drily.

“I haven’t been an intern since you haven’t been a rookie,” Eli replies. “Now come on. Why are you really here, Kent?”

Kent takes off his hat, runs his fingers through his hair, and puts his hat back on. “My sister can’t come,” he finally admits. “To the charity event.”

Eli sits forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his desk. “Well, that’s not a problem. Do you have any friends you could invite?”

“They’re all on the team.”

“Do any of them have sisters? Cousins?”

Kent makes a face. “Isn’t that weird?”

Eli shrugs. “Not really. People do that a lot.”

Kent considers. Taps his finger against Eli’s desk. “All right,” he says, and Eli nods.

“Now let me get back to work, Parson,” Eli says, picking up his phone.

“Text your boyfriend, tell him I say hi,” Kent throws over his shoulder as he leaves, and Eli’s laugh follows him down the hallway.

* * *

It takes a few days, and he gets the shit teased out of him, but Kent finally finds a teammate who is willing to contact a relative, and that relative does not turn down Kent’s pleas to be his plus-one to this charity fundraiser that has become a bigger deal in Kent’s life than it really should be. This is how Kent ends up loitering in the lobby of Romi’s apartment building, dressed in a suit with far too much gel in his hair, on a Saturday evening.

The elevator doors open, and Kent hears Romi before he sees him. “Just watch out, Parse can be a major asshole,” he tells someone still in the elevator, and Kent rises from his seat, rolling his eyes.

“Fuck off, Romi, I’m only an asshole when I want to be one,” Kent says, and that is how Kent’s first impression of Carly Romanski becomes her laugh.

Carly, Romi’s younger sister, is gorgeous. She is tall but not too tall (in other words, her heels put her only an inch shorter than Kent) with an athlete’s build, wavy golden hair, and a smile like a 1940s movie star. She approaches Kent without any hesitation, not even wobbling in her high-heels, and her wine-red cocktail dress hugs her figure in all the right places.

Damn, if only Kent preferred feminine curves to masculine angles.

“Please forget anything Romi has told you about me in the last two days,” Kent requests, holding out his hand. “I’m Kent.”

Carly takes his hand and laughs when he turns her hand palm-down and bends over to press a quick kiss to her skin. “I’m Carly,” she says, and her voice is deeper than Kent expected.

“Yes, very smooth moves, Parse,” Romi says dismissively. “Let’s go, children. We have an event to get to, and I still have to pick up Aurora.”

“I’m only three years younger than you!” Carly protests, but she is smiling like this is an argument she and her brother have all the time. Kent offers her his elbow (what? His mother taught him _some_ things before he disappeared to Rimouski), and Carly rests her fingers against his pulse.

Over the course of the four or so hours that the fundraiser lasts, Kent actually enjoys himself. Carly is laid back but still witty. She and Kent spend the night trying to make each other laugh with running commentary about Kent’s teammates, and when dinner rolls around, Carly eats as much as Kent does – two whole plates of food, that is. “I ran a 15k this morning, all right?” she says defensively when she returns to their table with her second plate.

Kent holds up his hands. “Girl’s gotta eat,” he says, and Carly smiles over the rim of her glass of wine.

He can actually talk to her about hockey, too – _really_ talk, not just about team standings and big-name players, but about technicalities of play and which of the rookies this year will likely win the Calder. Carly played hockey from age three until she graduated college, and she has been following the NHL as long as Romi has. “Have you heard any of the rumblings about the NWHL?” she asks Kent, and they spend a solid half-hour discussing gender inequality in professional sports.

At the end of the night, Kent drives Carly back to Romi’s apartment, since Romi and Aurora left the event for Aurora’s place long before the fundraiser was even over. Kent walks Carly all the way to the elevator, and they stand in comfortable silence while they wait for it to come down to the lobby. Carly yawns more than once.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Carly looks up at Kent; she removed her heels a few minutes ago, so now she actually has to look up to make eye contact with him. “That was a lot more fun than I expected,” she says honestly.

Kent grins. “Thanks for being my plus-one on such short notice.”

The doors start to close again, and Carly quickly sticks out her leg so they remain open. “Wait,” she says, planting her feet so she is standing halfway in the elevator and halfway out. She digs into her purse and produces a cell phone, which she hands to Kent. “Exchange numbers?”

Kent digs out his phone and gives it to the blonde before entering his number into her address book. He leaves the contact name blank, but when he gets his phone back from Carly, he sees that she has entered herself as _The Better Romanski_.

Kent grins, and Carly’s lips curl in an answering smile. “You’re not really an asshole,” she says, stepping fully into the elevator “so if you ever need another plus-one – call me, all right?”

Kent winks. “I got you,” he says, and the doors slide close on the image of Carly laughing and waving her fingers in farewell.

* * *

It is only a few days later when he gets a text from _The Better Romanski_ with a link to some hockey blog and a message that reads, _Do you see this idiot claiming that Keller is gonna get the Calder?_

 _You don’t think Keller could get it?_ Kent immediately replies.

 _Maybe. If he wasn’t up against Pierce, Usman, and Franco_.

Her reply launches a full scale debate, one that includes links to stats and miniature clips of this season’s rookies in their previous leagues, and from then on, Kent texts Carly on the regular. Season actually starts, and Kent has less time to text, but by mid-November, they are close enough that Kent is not surprised in the least when Carly calls him one day and asks for help with arranging Romi’s surprise birthday party.

“I want it to be at a bar,” Carly says, “but given my job, I don’t really go out drinking all that much.”

“Then that’s a terrible job, and you should quit,” Kent replies with a grin.

“Please, like you’re drinking yourself under the table every weekend.”

“Then why are you even asking for my help?”

“Don’t be dumb, Kent. Romi tells me about your team’s post-victory celebrations.”

Between the two of them and some help from Karpo (who has stuck around Vegas for his wife’s job though he himself is retired), they manage to pull together the party, and Smyth’s Bar and Sports Club is where Kent sees Carly for the first time in person since the fundraising event in October.

Though they rented out the bar for the night, it is still pretty crowded, and Kent has been on location for almost half an hour before he sees Carly. She does not notice him, in deep conversation with Henders, so Kent sneaks up behind her and throws his arms around her waist, tucking his chin over her shoulder.

Carly shouts and twists until she can identify him. “Kent!” she admonishes, and then turns in his arms to give him a proper hug.

“Hey, Carls,” Kent says before tossing his chin at Henders. “Hey,” he says, and Henders looks like he is about to piss himself, from a combination of excitement and fear. Henders was drafted the same year Shawty was, but Henders has been in the AHL until a month ago, when Dan went down with an ankle sprain. Usually, guys like Henders do not end up at birthday parties for regular roster players, but Romi has, like, adopted Henders, so Kent invited the kid anyway.

“Guess what Scott and I were just talking about?” Carly asks, a gleam in her eye.

“What?”

“The Calder,” Carly says. “And he agrees that Keller can’t possibly win it.”

Kent blanks his expression except for a raised eyebrow, and Henders immediately holds up his hands. “But – I didn’t _mean_ –"

Kent breaks into a laugh. God, he is only a year older than Henders and half a foot shorter. How does he make this kid nervous? “I’m messing with you, kid,” Kent says, and Henders looks relieved.

Carly rolls her eyes. “He’s being an ass, Scott. I’ll take him away.” She grabs Kent’s wrists and starts walking away, saying over her shoulder, “Come on! I challenge you to a round of darts.”

Kent beats her, soundly, in darts, but when they switch to billiards, Carly wipes the floor with him. Some of the other guys watch it happen, which leads to Carly getting challenges from the other Aces, and Kent gets to watch Carly demolish Dan, Kiki, her own brother, and even Karpo in consecutive rounds. The more people she beats, the rowdier the crowd gets, and Carly even turns a bit cocky – she starts hitting more trick shots, and if she is lining up with her back facing a particular Aces player, she takes care to wriggle her butt in an obnoxious fashion before taking her shot.

Kent watches from a barstool in the back of the crowd, but Carly still manages to catch his eye whenever she makes a particularly cheeky shot, and Kent smiles back at her lazily, taking a sip of his beer every once in a while. Once she beats Karpo, she begs off any more challenges for the night by claiming she has to grab Romi’s cake, and the guys let her go, though Kiki looks disappointed – he wanted a rematch. Carly detours by Kent, says, “Come on,” and Kent follows her to the back room.

The cake has a truly embarrassing photo of Romi on it, one from his days when he did not just have a thick mustache but also had a sole patch and curlier hair. “Have you ever told him to get rid of the facial hair?” Kent asks as Carly slides the cake into his arms.

“Tried and failed,” Carly replies, gathering a stack of paper plates and plastic utensils. “I don’t think even Aurora could convince him to get rid of it.”

“You kidding me? She probably likes it. She met him when he was in his sideburns phase.”

“Oh, gross.”

They sing what has to be the least-harmonized version of “Happy Birthday” ever, and Romi plants a disgustingly wet kiss on both Kent and Carly’s foreheads, but when Kent and Carly end up sharing a slice of cake, leaning side-by-side against the bar as they listen to Karpo and Dan tell stories about Romi’s rookie days, Kent can confidently say he would not want to be anywhere else in the world at this moment.

* * *

True to his word, Kent calls up Louisa the next time PR ropes him into an event that Kent would rather go to with a friend than alone. This time, Louisa can make it, and they have fun running around a charity-organized carnival in the outskirts of Vegas before Kent takes Louisa back home. They end up sitting on Kent’s bed, Kit lounging across Kent’s lap as Lousia goes through the Aces Instagram account on her phone.

“Holy crap! Who is she?” Louisa demands, shoving her phone in Kent’s face.

Kent looks up from Kit. It is a picture of him and Carly from the first event they went to; Carly looks stunning, smiling at someone off camera, as Kent whispers something into her ear, his arm around her waist. Kent is ninety percent sure that is the moment when he told Carly that Kiki still needs Kent or Dan to tie his tie for him.

“That’s Carly,” Kent says. “She’s Romi’s sister. Number 67? He’s usually my right wing.”

“She’s really pretty,” Louisa says, her voice light with awe. She pulls her phone closer to her face.

Kent laughs and goes back to playing with Kit’s paws. Kit scrunches her nose in protest. “She is,” he agrees with Louisa.

“Are you dating her?”

“No.”

Louisa drops her phone. “Kenny! Oh, my God. _She’s_ not good enough for you?”

“No!” Kent protests, “No, she’s great. I mean – she’s Carly.”

“You seriously aren’t dating her?” Louisa demands.

“Why do you think I am?”

“For one, you text her all the time,” Louisa points out, and okay, that is true. Even during the carnival they were texting. “A secondly, she’s the only girl you put your arm around in any of these photos. Ever.”

“I put my arm around you,” Kent says.

“I’m your sister, Kenny. If anyone is thinking what you just implied, they’re really, really gross.”

Kent sighs. “I promise, if I were dating Carly, I would tell you about it,” he tells Louisa.

“You better tell me if you’re dating someone,” Louisa threatens under her breath, going back to her phone, and Kent snorts. He pokes one of Kit’s paws, and Kit meows.

* * *

“It is so fucking unfair,” Carly complains, “that my brother gets to see the premiere of _The Opera House_. He’s not even going to appreciate it!”

“No?”

“No! He is uncultured swine!”

Kent laughs, and Carly huffs on the other side of the phone line. She must have him on bluetooth as she drives back into the city from her work; Kent can occasionally hear other cars and the ticking of a turn signal.

“Is Romi going to take Aurora with him?” Kent asks. He tries to unscrew a jar of peanut butter with one hand, fails, huffs, and puts his cell phone between his shoulder and his ear before successfully opening the jar with two hands.

“Probably. I keep telling him he should just propose, already. He hasn’t looked at another woman since he met her – what, three years ago?”

“Four and half.”

“Geez.”

Kent pulls out a knife and starts coating his toast with liberal amounts of peanut butter. “You know,” he says, “I could probably get tickets to that premiere.”

“Shut up.”

Kent double takes. “What?”

“Shut up!” Carly repeats. He can hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t lie to me about stuff like that!”

“I’m not!” Kent insists. “I’ll talk to PR – they’re pretty good about pulling strings in the Vegas area. If I can, do you want us to go –”

“Holy _fuck_ , yes. _The Opera House?_ Yes.”

Kent grins. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Kent, you’d be a _saint_.”

“Anything for you, Carls.”

That afternoon, Kent calls PR, and Desiree the Intern informs him that yes, she can indeed get him two tickets for the Vegas premiere of _The Opera House_. Kent looks up the movie, and the synopsis does not suggest that it is the type of movie Kent would typically go see, but when he tells Carly he got tickets, she literally screeches over the phone.

The day of the premiere, Carly is beside herself. She chatters the entire drive to the venue, and Kent merely listens until he pulls up to the valet service at the red carpet – okay, honestly, he tunes out half of it, but Carly _is_ repeating herself a fair amount. When Kent opens up the passenger door for Carly and offers her a hand, Kent witnesses, for the first time ever, Carly almost trip in her heels. “That’s Elissa Bloomberg,” she whispers to Kent, eyes wide and hands gripping his arm tightly, and Kent snorts. 

“Keep it together, Carls.”

“Oh, my God, she took her son as her date,” Carly notes. “That’s so sad. She just got divorced, you know? But that’s her son, Jessie.”

The movie, just like Kent suspected, is not up his alley at all, but Carly loves it. When it ends and they are leaving, Carly is completely silent. Kent tries to say something, a bit worried that Carly is so wordless, but she shushes him immediately. “Not a word,” she says. “I’m trying to remember all of it.”

Kent smiles down at his shoes. When they are waiting for the valet to bring up Kent’s car, Carly starts shivering, so Kent takes off his jacket and drapes it over Carly’s shoulders, and when she turns to give him a warm and genuine smile, Kent decides that watching that entire dumb movie was worth it to make Carly so happy.

* * *

“I think your cat hates me,” Carly says warily.

Kent snorts, returning from the kitchen with two beers. He hands one to Carly as he sits down and says, “Kit only likes two people in the entire world: me and herself.”

Carly grins. “She’s a perfect match for you.”

“We’re soul mates.”

It is a Saturday evening in late January, and the Aces have three whole days off before their next game, at home against the Pens. Carly had called Kent earlier that afternoon, complaining that her friends had cancelled their evening plans last-minute, and Kent automatically invited her over to watch the Bruins versus Rangers match up. It is dark out, now, and the game is in its third period.

“Does Lucic hit hard?” Carly asks.

Kent shrugs. “I’m usually too quick to get hit.”

Carly snorts. “Cocky.”

“Of course.”

She does not say anything else, but Kent can sense a strange tension coming off of her. It catches his attention immediately; Carly is one of the most laid back people Kent knows. He gives her a minute or two, but when the tension does not dissipate, Kent asks, “What’s up?”

Carly turns to him, chewing her lower lip. “Can I try something?” she asks.

Kent makes a general _go ahead_ motion with his hands, and Carly shifts on the couch to grab Kent’s beer. He lets her take it and watches her set their drinks on the coffee table; then Carly turns back to him, blocking the TV screen with her body, her hand coming up to press against the side of Kent’s face. Kent instantly knows what she is about to do, and she leans towards him slowly, her blue eyes carefully watching his face for any reaction, but for some reason, Kent does not immediately stop her.

It is not the first time a girl has kissed him, and it is not the first time Kent has kissed back, either. His hands rest on her body, one on her thigh and another on her waist, and of course Carly is a really good kisser, too. It seems like there is not much she is _not_ good at. But Kent pulls away almost as soon as the kiss starts, turning his face to the side and gently pushing Carly away.

Carly’s hands slide away from Kent’s face, and she sits back on her haunches, halfway on one of Kent’s thighs. “I read that wrong,” she says quietly, and fuck, Kent does not want to upset her – but how could rejection not upset her?

“Carly,” Kent says urgently, “It’s – it’s not you –”

“Kent, it’s fine,” Carly says earnestly, but she will not quite look him in the eye. “You don’t need to explain –”

She starts to get up, but Kent catches her wrist. “Carly, please,” he implores, and Carly stops, though she looks like she just wants to leave. “It’s not you,” he repeats. “You’re – you’re incredible, you know that? You’re gorgeous and funny and –”

“Kent. You’re not helping.”

“It’s just – I’m gay.”

It is not until the words are out that Kent realizes he has made the decision to come out to Carly. He feels a lot calmer than he thought he would, saying the words out loud for the first time – well, ever. But he knows he trusts Carly. She is one of his closest friends in this city; she deserves his honesty.

Kent cannot read her expression, and when she finally speaks, she merely says, “Oh.”

A nervous laugh hops out of Kent’s throat, and he lets go of Carly’s wrist to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

“So it _is_ me,” Carly says, but her tone is light enough that Kent knows she might be hurt a bit, right now, but she will be all right eventually. “I’m not –”

“Male.”

“ – a dude,” Carly finishes, then laughs, kind of breathless.

“You’re literally perfect, Carls,” Kent says. “I really like you. Seriously. Just …”

“Not that way.” Carly nods, and she smiles, small and sad. “Thanks for telling me. Like … that you’re –”

“Gay,” Kent says. He has said it twice in the last two minutes, and now Kent is the one laughing breathlessly. “That’s the first time I’ve said it. Out loud.”

Carly pats his knee. “I think I should go,” she says quietly.

Kent sobers. “I’m sorry,” he says, for lack of anything better to say.

Carly stands up, and Kent follows her to his front door, leaning against the wall as she pulls on her boots. When she straightens up, she takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes. “I … I might need a few days to myself. If that’s all right.”

“Are you good to drive home?” Kent asks.

Carly nods. “Yeah. I’ll text you by next weekend, okay?”

Kent nods, and Carly raises on her toes to kiss his cheek. Kent pulls her in for a hug, and Carly squeezes his waist tightly before leaving without another word.

* * *

Kent is uncertain if Carly will ever contact him again. He is used to a fairly steady stream of texts and calls with her, so the first few days of radio silence is jarring, but Kent adjusts to the lack of contact fairly quickly. He loves Carly, in the most platonic sense of the world, but he is ready to accept that he might never be on the same level of friendship again, with her. Hell, Kent knows a thing or two about beaten and broken hearts.

But Carly sticks true to her word. The next Saturday, after a tight win at Rexall Place, Kent returns to his locker after his shower to see a text alert on his phone. _If Edmonton wasn’t so awful,_ it reads, _Hall could totally challenge you for the Arty_.

Kent grins and replies to _The Better Romanski_ : 

 _No chance in hell_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any opinionated references to real NHL teams/players in the work are not meant to reflect any of my own opinions. (In other words: I love Edmonton, and Taylor Hall is pretty great.)


	4. covered in the colors, pulled apart at the seams

The Aces are celebrating a sweet 5 – 0 win over the Blue Jackets at a local bar when Kent sees the guy – Jessie Bloomberg, Carly had said when she pointed him out a couple months ago. The guy is kind of hot, Kent has to admit, and he has gotten a different haircut since the _Opera House_ premiere, a change that certainly works in his favor. Kent has been going a bit stir-crazy, lately, with nothing but his right hand to get off with, so maybe he will pick up someone tonight, make a smooth getaway out of the back entrance when everyone is distracted by Kiki and Henders engaging in a horrendous dance-off on the counter top. It is not happening yet, but anytime Kiki and Henders and vodka are mixed in with Top 40s pop, dance-offs are inevitable.

Kent starts looking around for guys who might be playing for his team (and he is not talking about the Aces) when the actress’s son comes up to him. “Kent Parson, right?” Jessie asks, holding out a hand.

Kent nods. “Jessie Bloomberg,” he replies, and Jessie grins.

“You were at my mom’s premiere with that blond chick,” Jessie says. “She around?”

Kent shakes his head. “We were never dating.”

Jessie’s smile changes ever so slightly, and his eyes dart down to Kent’s lips as his hand slowly slides out of Kent’s. “That’s good,” he says, his voice pitched lower with suggestion, and Kent winks at him.

Twenty minutes later, Kiki and Henders are gyrating, off-beat, to the latest Katy Perry hit, and twenty minutes after that, Kent is pulling his shirt over his head as Jessie presses him up against Kent’s own front door. Jessie is just shorter than him, so Kent has to curl his spine to kiss the other man’s lips and neck and shoulder. Jessie sucks in a breath and lines his hips up against Kent’s, causing Kent to groan.

“I have a bed, you know,” Kent says, and Jessie lets Kent lead them to his bedroom. Kent takes care to shut the door before Kit can slip inside – he does not want to traumatize his cat.

The next morning, Kent has an early practice, and he loathes having to wake up Jessie. Usually, when he has to wake up a hook-up early, they are really bitchy about having to get up before the sun. Jessie does not mind, though; he merely stretches and yawns before tumbling out of bed and collecting his discarded clothing. 

“Early practice?” he asks, pulling on his jeans and hopping to get them up to his hips.

Kent nods, already lacing up his sneakers. He went through his morning routine before waking Jessie. “I’d offer to cook breakfast, or something,” he fibs, “but I’m a terrible cook anyway. You’d probably get salmonella and die.”

They walk to Kent’s front door, and Kent swings his car keys around his finger as Jessie pulls on his shoes. “Can we keep what happened last night quiet?” Kent asks as Jessie straightens up.

“Duh,” Jessie says. “I’m not out either, man. My mother would disown me.”

It is not the response that Kent was expecting, but whatever. Works for him. “Thanks,” he says anyway, because he is not an asshole to people who were good lays.

Jessie nods. “If you ever want to do this again,” he says, “DM me on Twitter, ‘kay?”

“Will do,” Kent replies, fully intending to never contact Jessie again.

Famous last words, Kent supposes.

* * *

A couple weeks later, the Aces shutout the Habs 2 - 0 and secure their spot in the play-offs. Their next game is not for another four days, so the team descends on their city to celebrate their victory in style. Kent has a beer in one hand and his arms around Henders and Watts, belting out the lyrics to _Eye of the Tiger_ , and fuck, Kent really wants to get some tonight. Something about victory makes him horny, and maybe he accidentally conditioned himself during juniors with Jack? Whatever. The alcohol in his veins is just enough to warm him without getting him drunk, so Kent feels completely in control when he finds Jessie Bloomberg’s twitter, follows him, and then sends him a message: _You free tonight?_

Not even a minute later Kent’s phone buzzes with Jessie’s reply. _Come to my place_ , it reads, with an address attached. He is on the opposite side of the city that this bar is, but Kent does not care. It is worth it.

“Good job tonight, boys,” Kent calls to anyone within his vicinity. “Don’t poison your livers!”

“Aw, come on, Parse,” Romi complains. “Leaving already?”

Kent smiles lazily and shrugs. “Kit gets lonely when I’m not around,” he says, and he makes his escape with nothing more than a few chirps.

Jessie lives on the second-highest floor of an upscale apartment building, and when Jessie opens the door, Kent whistles appreciatively as he walks in. “Nice place,” he comments lightly, and Jessie grins.

“Mama got a lot of money from the divorce,” he says, and then his lips are on Kent’s neck and his hands are on Kent’s belt.

They have sex several times that night, fall asleep on Jessie’s bed, and fit in one more round when they wake in the morning before Kent leaves because he needs to feed his cat unless he wants Kit to claw up his carpet again. Jessie rolls his eyes at Kent from where he is lounging on the bed, still naked, watching Kent collect his things from around the apartment.

“I’ve seen your Instagram,” Jessie comments. “That cat is the most stable relationship you have in your life.”

“I like it that way,” Kent replies. “She loves me no matter how much of an asshole I’ve been.”

Jessie slaps his ass as Kent walks by, and Kent laughs. He is tempted to stay for one more quickie, but he really has to take care of Kit.

* * *

“What the hell is this?”

Kent sits up, alert in case he needs to be worried about something. “What?” he calls across his apartment.

Carly pokes her head out of his bathroom, holding up something rectangular. “Is this a _half-empty_ box of condoms?” she asks, a teasing grin splitting her cheeks.

“Protection is _important_ ,” Kent replies, straight-faced, and Carly disappears for a moment to return the condoms before coming back to the living room.

They are having their bi-weekly watch-an-NHL-game night, and it is a fairly exciting Kings-Blackhawks rematch, but Carly completely ignores the game when she sits down again. “Have you been seeing someone?” she asks, genuinely interested.

Kent scrunches his nose. “What constitutes as seeing someone?”

“I don’t know. Having sex with one person multiple times over a certain interval of time?”

Kit wanders into the living room, and Kent makes kissing noises at her until she leaps onto the coach and curls up on his stomach. “Most people would say going on dates,” he observes dryly.

“Well, yeah. But I’m not sure what your dating situation is like.”

“Point,” Kent says, scratching Kit between her ears. His cat purrs comfortingly on his chest. “You’ll never guess who it is,” he says.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Carly lowers her eyebrows. “My brother?” she offers after a moment, only half-serious.

“Not if he’s still got that mustache,” Kent says. 

“Who is it?”

Kent grins. “Jessie Bloomberg.”

Carly’s jaw drops. “Shut up.” Kent silently arches an eyebrow, and Carly rolls her eyes. “Oh, not literally, Kent, _God_.”

Kent shakes his head, smiling down at Kit. The inside of her right ear is looking red, again – he should take her to the vet sometime soon.

“Do you like him?”

Kent shrugs, looking at the TV without really focusing on it. “He’s also in the closet,” Kent says, sounding far more nonchalant than he feels, “so it’s just sex, really. Every now and then.”

“And you’re happy with that?”

Out of surprise, Kent finally looks at Carly. She seems genuinely concerned, perched on the edge of her seat. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Carly shrugs. “Sex is great, but – it’s not always enough, you know?”

Kent does know. Since Jack, he has had nothing more than just sex, and he sometimes gets tired of it. Not the sex, that is, but the lack of meaning behind any of it. But even though Jessie is a nice guy, and they hook up almost every time Kent has a decently long homestead, and Kent could imagine dating a person like Jessie … Kent feels exhausted merely thinking about maintaining a closeted relationship with a son of an actress in Las fucking Vegas.

“You’re right, Carls,” Kent admits quietly, and Carly lays a comforting hand on his shoulder.

* * *

His conversation with Carly does not stop Kent from seeking out Jessie from time to time, or coming when Jessie calls. But each time it happens, it feels a bit more like Kent is just going through the motions, and each time it happens, Jessie tries to get Kent to stay a little longer, to share a meal with him or watch a movie.

It is not like Jessie is doing anything wrong; on the contrary, he is as friendly and sexy as he ever was, ready to tell a joke or blow Kent until he forgets his name at Kent’s request. And Kent almost wants to like him, Kent _wants_ to be able to put himself out there for Jessie, but something in Kent just keeps resisting. What if they try actually dating, and it all goes wrong? Kent wonders. What if they are outed? Could they survive something like that together?

Call him a coward, but Kent is not willing to try.

* * *

One day, Jessie calls Kent, and Kent lets the phone ring. Voicemail eventually picks up, and a minute later, Kent receives a text from Jessie. He reads the text and does not reply.

Jessie tries again the next day, and then the next, and then the Aces take off for a long roadie. It is their last long trip of the regular season, and they go 3 – 0 – 1. When Kent gets back to Vegas, he does not contact Jessie, and Jessie does not contact him.

The day after he gets back, Kent sees Jessie at the grocery store. They make eye contact for a split second, and Kent immediately looks away. From his peripherals, he can see Jessie staring at him as if he might try to confront Kent, but Kent does not want that, so he takes the decision away from Jesse. He flips his hat around, pulls the brim low over his face, and leaves the store without buying anything.

Kent feels like an utter asshole, but Kit is the only one who sees him cry about it.


	5. you'll never be forgiven 'til your boys are too

In late December of 2014, Kent finds himself parked behind a closed restaurant in Samwell, Massachusetts, his hands shaking on the steering wheel of his rented car.

It was really damn stupid of Kent to come here and try to talk to Jack. He thought he learned his lesson the first time, but apparently, Kent is the hugest, most stupidly optimistic dumbass in the history of ever, because he came here expecting – well, more like hoping – for some kind of closure or forgiveness or _something_. Instead, he ends up yelling at Jack and Jack yells at him and Kent quits that goddamn rundown frat house to find a parking lot where he can sit alone and cry.

He wishes Kit were here.

Kent presses his forehead against the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. Kit is on the other side of the country, and the Aces have a game against Boston tomorrow. Kent has to be a responsible adult and get himself back to the hotel before curfew.

He breathes slowly, counting out each inhale and exhale, until he stops shaking. He straightens his spine with a groan, wincing when he senses the indent the wheel left on his forehead, and hastily wipes his tears away with his sleeve.

“I’m okay,” Kent says aloud, rather weakly, so he shakes his head and tries again.

“I’m _okay_.”

* * *

Jack signs with the Falconers. Kent finds out through the Internet – first through the NHL’s website, then through the Twitter of that baker on Jack’s Samwell team. Kent does not follow the kid on Twitter, but the name and face of Eric Bittle are burned into Kent’s mind, just like every other one of Jack’s teammates that Kent has met. Sometimes Kent feels an irrational jealousy of them – they get to be on a team with _Jack_. They get to live with _Jack_. But then Kent reminds himself that he has more zeroes to his name than any of them, he plays in the fucking NHL, he has won _the fucking Stanley Cup_ , and he has a cat who loves him only second to herself. Things could be a lot worse.

* * *

Winning the Cup the first time around was not easy, but since then, the Aces’s roster has changed up a fair amount – Vanny injured his back and was forced into early retirement, both Dan and Henders got traded, and their head coach got fired after a spat with the owner – and both Chicago and LA have really upped their play. Kent is really proud of his team for making it to the play-offs for the fourth year in a row, but when they are eliminated in the second round, Kent cannot help feeling like they could have done more. _He_ could have done more, and maybe then the Aces would be the ones going for the Cup again.

He spends most of the summer in New York with his mother and Louisa, in the house that Kent bought his mother during his second year in Vegas. During play-offs Kent had fractured a bone in his hand and pulled a hamstring (though not at the same time), so for several weeks he is told to rest and do nothing more strenuous than his physical therapy routine. He takes care of Kit, listens to Louisa’s college stories, helps his mom in her garden, and takes more pictures for Kit’s Instagram.

When August rolls around, Kent feels the familiar thrill of an upcoming season, but now that he has been in the league for sometime, the thrill no longer has a _new_ quality to it. Hockey, even NHL-level hockey, is routine. Kent welcomes the rookies and the new trades during camp, but he does not get attached until camp is over and they have their roster for the start of the season. None of the drafted kids are going straight to the Aces’s lineup, this year, but they have a few guys who have spent a couple years in the AHL, and they finally found a more permanent back-up goaltender ever since Vanny left a goalie-sized gap in their line-up – some German dude named Lieberenz from the KHL. His English is hella rocky, but he still seems witty, and he smiles way more than Kent thinks anyone has the right to – but hey, maybe the guy is just glad to get out of Slovakia.

Kent gets called in to visit PR one day in early September, and when Kent walks into the first conference room, it is Eli and a couple of the GMs who are waiting to talk to him. Kent is instantly wary; when the GMs appear, it is almost never a good sign.

“Good morning,” Kent says, taking a seat opposite of the trio.

“Hi, Kent,” Eli says. He is smiling, but it is not as relaxed as Kent knows it could be. “There’s no sense in beating around the bush – we want to ask you about Jack Zimmermann.”

Every muscle in Kent’s body tenses. How much could they know about him and Jack? Jack has been a subject that management and PR have talked very little about with Kent, particularly when Kent made it very obvious, in his rookie year, that Jack was a subject he was not going to talk about, either to press or non-press. “What about Zimmermann?” Kent asks.

“Given that you two were a pretty big deal in the Q,” Eli starts, and Kent resists making a derisive expression. A pretty big deal? He and Jack were _the_ big deal. “There may be some reporters, tabloids, et cetera, asking about him, now that he is finally joining the NHL. Can you handle that kind of questioning?”

“Of course.”

“Kent – please.” Eli hesitates, caution obvious in his expression. “We don’t need an immediate answer, and we want you to be sure about your response.”

Kent refuses to look away, staring down the man across from him as he says, “I’m sure. I can handle it.”

Eli nods and pulls away from the table. “So that’s the first order of business,” he says, sifting a pile of papers in front of him. “Now! The Youth Hockey fund,” he says, and he smiles at Kent, fully aware that Kent would be groaning about doing yet another PR spot if there were not two GMs in the room.

* * *

The Falconers come to Vegas in late October, but the city is still boiling hot. Kent wakes long before his alarm on that Friday, and when he cannot fall back asleep, he quits his bed and watches mind-numbing TV with Kit in his lap until his day properly starts.

Morning skate is a short and tense affair, and Kent leaves the ice realizing that he needs to get his shit together, or else his entire team is going to lock onto his weird vibes and their game tonight is going to be a mess. He makes lunch back at his apartment and then spends two hours blasting Louisa’s god-awful early 2000s pop playlist (it has a disproportionate amount of Britney Spears) to clear his mind, and by the time Kent is driving back to their stadium, he is confident that he is ready to go.

Warm-ups are infinitely better than morning skate, and as the stands steadily fill up and Kent sees white and navy jerseys flash by in his peripherals, excitement starts to build in his veins. This will be the first time he shares ice with Jack in over _five whole years_.

Kent purposely does not look for Jack, so he does not see him until the opening face-off. They are at center ice, and for a moment, all Kent sees are Jack’s blue, blue eyes – Jack inhales, and Kent gives him a small nod, and then the puck drops –

And they are off.

Romi is the first to score, on a sweet one-timer from Kiki, but the Falcs tie it up with only thirteen seconds left in the first period on a two-on-one breakaway. After the coaches make their points during the intermission, Kent yells at his team until they are all yelling together, grinning and ready to take the second period by storm. 

Kent’s blood is racing in his veins. Every time he comes into contact with Jack, energy sparks between them, and Kent knows Jack is feeling it too – there is a different, urgent edge to Jack’s skating tonight, and edge that Kent remembers he only used to get at the end of high-stakes games in juniors. Then again, Kent supposes that tonight, this could be some sort of high-stakes game for Jack.

The second period is exhausting, dragging on without any points scored, and it occurs to Kent that he and Jack are in some sort of race to see who can score first. Every time their shifts align, Kent feels more of a need to see the puck in the back of the Falconers’ net, but no matter how many shots he takes, someone blocks it or the goalie gets the save. 

It is after one such shot that Kent ends up stomach-down on the ice, sliding into the boards, utterly powerless to stop Jack from scoring first.

Kent’s shot ricochets off the back glass and a Falcs’ defender, Smyth, gathers the puck and quickly slides it to Whitey. Kent instantly recognizes that, on his own team, Kiki and Sebs are caught behind the puck, Kush is too far away from the neutral zone, and Fassi has committed too early and too much to covering Whitey. It is textbook perfect, an absolutely beautiful play, when Whitey draws Fassi towards him before saucing the puck to Jack, and with a quick little deke – simple but effective – Jack has Lieberenz beat and the Falconers are up 2 – 1.

The Falcs go nuts, crowding Jack like he just won them the game, and Kent skates back to his bench, chewing on his mouthguard. He is really here. Both him and Jack are here, playing in the NHL, and it might be several years late, but it has finally happened.

And it feels _so right_.

The Falconers keep the lead through the end of the second, but the Aces dominate in the third. Kent gets a goal of his own, and as the third ticks away, it becomes evident that while they are both expansion teams, the Aces are a couple years ahead in their development, and the Falconers’ inexperience and fatigue catch up to them, particularly in their bottom lines. The Aces pull a 5 – 3 regulation victory, and afterwards, when they are all shaking hands, Jack holds onto Kent for a second longer.

“Can we get dinner together?” he asks, blue eyes droopy and earnest as he looks at Kent.

The last time he saw Jack, those eyes had been clouded and angry. This moment, here and now, is infinitely better. “Sure thing, Zimms,” Kent says, and Jack cracks a smile.

* * *

Kent drives them to a place further out from the city, in the hopes of avoiding any possible press invasions. They do not talk much on the ride there, listening to the Kings versus Canadiens game being broadcast on the radio, and once they order their food and drink, Kent lets himself look at Jack.

Jack seems tired, but tired in the way most guys are after a game – exhausted, but still buzzing a bit from adrenaline. He is looking studiously at his plate as he fiddles with his silverware, and Kent wonders why Jack even asked him to grab a bite. Records show that Kent has been an asshole the last few years, a figure from Jack’s past who shows up to inconveniently haunt him from time to time.

“How’s the Samwell team doing?” Kent asks.

Jack jumps to attention, looking up at Kent. “Uh, good,” he says, flipping his fork over. “Bittle keeps me updated.”

Kent nods and takes a sip of water, just to give his hands something to do. “You guys played well tonight,” he offers, and Jack snorts.

“No, really,” Kent insists. “Your first two lines are strong, and – what’s his name, Andre? Your tender is solid.”

“You kind of need defenders and four strong lines to win games,” Jack replies wryly, and Kent grins.

“You guys will get there.”

“Might be a couple of years.”

“You’re twenty-five. You have time.”

Jack leans back in his seat. “Are you going to play until you’re forty?” he asks Kent.

Kent shrugs. “I’ll play for as long as my body and the league let me,” he answers candidly, getting a smile out of Jack. “You?”

Jack shrugs. “I took a photography class my senior year,” he remarks, as lightly as if he were just observing the weather. “I really like it.”

“I can’t imagine you going to classes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. What the hell is college like? Louisa is there right now, but she doesn’t tell me any of the fun stories.”

Jack chuckles softly, and God, Kent cannot help but juxtapose this Jack with the Jack of their last in-person encounter. “You’ll probably want to keep her cloistered at home if she told you the fun stories,” he says. “Where is she going?”

“Amherst.”

“Wow. Good for her.”

He is so _mellow_ , so _calm_ , and he is not even buzzed, and when the hell did that happen? This is a Jack that seems like he is at peace with himself, and Kent wants to thank whoever it is that helped Jack get here. Yeah, Jack is tired, and Jack’s team just lost to Kent’s, but Kent still senses that underneath it all, Jack is _happy_ , and suddenly, Kent wants to cry with relief.

However, he is in public, and he does not think Jack would react well to his tears, either. “Tell me your fun college stories, then,” Kent requests. “How about that one guy – what’s his name, Shits or something? He seems like he has fucked up adventures.”

* * *

They never say aloud the words _I’m sorry_ or _I forgive you_ , but by the end of their meal, Kent feels like something has finally settled in his chest. Jack is okay, Kent is okay, and Jack is happy.

The last thing is for Kent to be happy.

* * *

The Aces play the Islanders a week after the home game against the Falconers, and they come away with a 3 – 2 win. It is their last game of a pretty grueling roadie, so they do not have a curfew, and they make the collective decision to hit up a nearby sports bar for some high-calorie food and light drinks. Romi contacts Henders, and Kent is next to Romi in a taxi when he says, “Yo, Henders! Wanna hang out with your old teammates or do you wanna be a sore loser?”

Henders shows up ten minutes after they do, and the gathered Aces make a racket that probably irritates everyone else in this sports bar. He is wearing an Islanders cap, which Kiki immediately steals and swaps for his Aces hat. “How ya doin’, Henders?” he asks, smacking Henders’ cheek, and Henders breaks into a broad smile.

Kent keeps to himself by the bar, nursing whatever whiskey Romi recommended (the guy thinks he is some kind of whiskey connoisseur, now that he has a father-in-law who owns a brewery), and it is Henders who approaches him, breaking away from the rest of the Aces crowd.

“Parse,” Henders says, opening his arms wide, and Kent pushes away from the bar to give Henders a hug.

It lasts longer than Kent expected; when he tries to pull away, Henders tightens his arms, and Kent pats his back uncertainly. “I’ve been missing you,” Henders says into his ear, and – oh?

They pull apart, and Henders holds eye contact with Kent for several seconds. He seems to be inviting Kent into something, and Kent – well, Kent is curious. His hand is still at the base of Henders’s neck, so he squeezes lightly and lets his lips curl in a smirk. “Missed you too, man,” Kent says, and Henders nods.

Kent waits. Henders joins the bulk of the Aces again, and Kent fends off the advances of a couple different women before the Aces are seated. They take up two whole long tables, and Henders is sitting directly behind Kent. Kent is hyperaware of the other man, wondering what he has in mind, but Henders does not even acknowledge Kent throughout the entire meal; it is not until they have all finished eating long ago and the clock on the wall nearly reads eleven that Henders leans back in his chair. “Want to come to my place?” Henders asks quietly.

“Sure,” Kent replies, staring down at the table. He feels Henders pull away and stand up.

“I gotta head out,” Henders says, triggering a chorus of protests. “No, really – got practice tomorrow morning.”

Kent twists to look at Henders. “Are you taking a cab?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll split,” Kent declares. “I’m beat.”

“You’re turning into an old man, Parser!” Romi calls.

“You better not forget to call Aurora,” Kent replies, and Romi curses.

In the taxi, they catch up. Henders talks about adjusting to New York – “It’s so much faster than Vegas. Like, everything about it” – getting to know his new teammates, figuring out his new pre-game routine for the Barclays Center. Kent tells him about Romi’s wedding, Kit’s still-growing internet following, and the one time Megan Fox came to one of their games and the rookies all freaked out. By then, they are pulling up to Henders’s apartment building, and Henders leads him up the stairs to the fourth floor.

“Zander lives on the floor above me,” Henders says, unlocking his door, “and Phil is above him.”

Henders' apartment is smaller than Kent’s back in Vegas. It feels even smaller because the majority of Kent’s apartment is made of glass, whereas Henders has two small windows on the far wall.

It is as if Henders has read Kent’s thoughts. “It’s not much,” he says.

Kent turns back to Henders. “I’m pretty sure I’m not here because you wanted to show me your apartment.”

Henders approaches Kent, stopping when he is close enough that Kent has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Henders is taller than Kent and broader in the shoulders, but he still looks so much younger than Kent, even though only a year actually separates them. “Stop me if you want to,” Henders says softly, and Kent had no idea this huge man had such a gentle side – watching Kent with soft eyes, Henders has gentle hands that cup Kent’s jaw and soft lips that press against Kent’s own.

For a minute or two, everything stays soft. Kent kisses Henders cautiously; Henders is moving as if Kent is delicate, but maybe that is because _Henders_ is uncertain, Kent reasons. But eventually Kent gets impatient, because if they keep going at this pace, nothing is going to happen tonight.

Kent bites down on Henders’s lip, and Henders grunts with surprise. “Come on,” Kent growls, “I know you can be rough.”

The single taunt is all it takes.

The next time Kent sees a clock, he is lying supine on Henders’s bed, catching his breath as Henders crawls back up the mattress and flops down next to Kent, one of his large arms laying across Kent’s stomach. It is nearly 2 AM.

“Do you want me to leave?” Kent asks.

“Mmm, no,” Henders mumbles, pressing his face into Kent’s side. “Stay,” he says, pressing a kiss to one of Kent’s ribs, and Kent closes his eyes, letting his hand fall into Henders' brown curls.

“All right.”

* * *

Kent wakes in the morning to the smell of cooked meat and the sensation of lips pressing lightly against his own. Kent groans, arching his back (fuck, he is sore), and he hears Henders chuckle.

“Good morning.”

Kent pries his eyes open. “What time is it?” he asks groggily.

“Seven-thirty,” Henders replies.

“Shit. Early practice, right?” Kent recalls, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“No, actually,” Henders admits. “But Kiki said you guys have a flight at eleven.”

Kent has finally woken enough to register his surroundings. There is a plate of eggs and sausage on the nightstand; sitting next to him on the edge of the bed is Henders, who is wearing sweatpants and an old Aces t-shirt. His face is open, soft in the morning light, and oh, God. Kent has fucked up big time.

“Um … Scott,” Kent starts, and Hender’s countenance loses all of its openness. “I – Henders –”

“No, it’s fine,” Henders says, drawing back. “You don’t need to say it.”

Kent quickly casts his eyes around the room and snags his underwear from where it is hanging off the bedside lamp. “I wouldn’t have –” He swallows. “If I had known –”

“Kent, really,” Henders says, and Kent finally looks at him again. “It’s fine. I … assumed a lot.”

He smiles, kind of, and Kent smiles back, sort of. He finds his jeans draped over the edge of the bed and pulls them on, grabs his wrinkled shirt from the floor and quickly buttons it up. “I’d say you’re going to find someone,” Kent starts to say.

“But have any of us ever found anyone?” Henders interrupts cynically.

Kent sighs, adjusts his shirt, and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks at Henders again. There is a weight on Kent’s shoulders, a weight that he can see Henders also carries, and they are both so weary.

“If it happens,” Kent says, “I’ll let you know.”

* * *

He texts Carly as soon as he is in a taxi, and he does not stop until his team is boarded on their flight home and the airline attendants are requesting all personal electronics to be put in the off position. When they are thousands of feet in the air over some cornfield in Nebraska, Kent makes his decision, and then he just has to wait until he is back on the ground to carry it out.

When he is home, he dumps his duffle bag just inside the door, and Kit comes running up to him, practically climbing up his pant leg. “Hey, Kit,” he says, bending over to scratch her neck. “I know, I know. You’re hungry.”

He fills her bowl and then sits down on the tiled kitchen floor, leaning against the wall as he digs his cell phone out of his pocket. He takes a deep breath and then finds his mother’s phone number in his contacts.

His mother picks up on the third ring. “Kenny?” she asks, surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

Kent inhales shakily. “Hey, Mom,” he says. Luckily, his voice is steady – for now. “Can you wait for me to get Louisa on the line? There’s something I need to tell you.”

* * *

Kent cries, as do Louisa and his mother, but they are tears of relief more than anything else. “God, Kent, I thought you were going to tell me you got _hurt_ or something,” his mother says, laughing and sniffling, and Kent grins, though his chin is still shaking a bit.

“I’m not hurt, Mom,” Kent replies. Kit, finished with her meal, stands in Kent’s lap and puts her front paws on his chest. “I’m just gay.”

His mother and Louisa laugh, and Kent scratches under Kit’s chin. His cat purrs and rubs her face against Kent’s stubbly chin, and Kent can feel a bit of that weight lift from his shoulders.


	6. ripped at every edge, but still a masterpiece

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

Eli looks up from his computer, eyebrows lifted in surprise until he realizes it is Kent standing in the doorway. “I could say the same to you,” he comments, relaxing back in his seat.

Kent walks in and takes the chair opposite of Eli. “You think I have the summer off?” he says. “You don’t win hardware by spending the summer tanning.”

Eli grins, twirling a pen around his finger. “Anyone else skate today?”

“Kiki came out. Romi was going to, but turns out he and Aurora had an appointment.”

“She’s at seven months, now?”

“Yup. Craves soft pretzels at 2 AM, according to Romi.”

Kent’s phone buzzes, and a glance shows a text from Louisa. It looks like a link, and Kent is about to ignore it until a second text comes through, reading, _Watch NOW. It’s Jack and the baker_.

Kent’s blood drains from his face, and Eli asks, “Kent? Is everything okay?”

Kent holds up his phone. “Sorry, can I watch this? My sister –”

Eli waves a hand. “By all means.”

The link opens up to Eric Bittle’s video blog. Kent has seen a few of his videos before, and even sent one about making pecan pie to his mother, but he has not seen this one, which was posted only half an hour ago. It is entitled _Lemon Squares!!!_ and it appears to be a typical teach-you-how-to-bake video. As usual, Eric is sitting in a kitchen, but it is not the frat house kitchen, like rest of his videos that Kent has seen.

It seems like a normal video, and Kent lays his phone on Eli’s desk so that they can both see it. “I don’t know,” he starts to explain to Eli, “My sister told me to watch it right away –” but Eli waves a dismissive hand, so Kent shuts up and watches.

Eric goes about making lemon squares, chattering as he measures flour and grates lemon peels and does whatever else is necessary for lemon squares. He is as chipper as ever, his Southern drawl switching from baking instructions to storytelling to raving about a baking convention he visited last week, and Kent is about to stop the video and apologize to Eli for the interruption when a second voice comes from the video. “Bittle?”

Eric perks up and pauses in whisking his eggs and lemon juice to smile at someone off-screen. “Good afternoon, sweetheart,” Eric says, and _Jack Zimmermann_ walks into the frame.

Kent watches with an open mouth as Jack bends down to kiss Eric’s cheek. “How was practice?” Eric asks, in a quieter voice than he uses to speak to his video blog audience.

“Was good,” Jack replies just as quietly. This is obviously a private moment, not staged for Eric’s video. Jack lays a hand on the nape of Eric’s neck and leans over Eric’s shoulder to look into his bowl. “What’s that?”

“Lemon squares,” Eric answers, then seems to remember he is recording. “As you guys know, I’ve been in a relationship for a few months, now,” he says to the camera. “This is my boyfriend, Jack.” He looks at Jack and bumps Jack’s hip with his own. “Say hi,” Eric tells him.

Jack waves awkwardly at the camera. “Hi,” he says uncertainly, and Eric laughs. Jack presses his nose to Eric’s hair, kisses his forehead, and then leaves the shot.

Eric blushes and grins. “He’s a bit camera-shy,” he says, then inhales deeply. “Where were we? Right! Whisking the eggs and lemon juice.”

Kent flops back in his seat, mind reeling in shock, and it is Eli who reaches out and stops the video. They are both silent for a minute, and then Eli asks, “Did you know?”

A strangled laugh hops out of Kent’s throat. _Did he know_ about Jack. “That was intentional,” he says instead of answering Eli. “He – Eric edits videos. He knows how to cut stuff and – and he wouldn’t post that without Jack’s approval –”

Eli frowns and leans forward. “Kent, are you okay?”

Kent finally looks at Eli. He opens his mouth, but he does not have a response – but then Eli’s computer and phone both start pinging alerts.

Eli turns to his computer, clicks something open, and then sucks in a breath. “It’s legitimate,” he says, then opens something on his phone and slides it over to Kent. There is an e-mail open from another Aces PR member, with an embedded article from the Falconer’s official website, entitled, simply, _Zimmermann Comes Out_.

“Kent?”

Kent flexes his fingers. “I need to go,” he says. He stands up abruptly, ready to run out of the door, but Eli calls him back.

“Your phone,” Eli says, holding it out to him.

Kent nods and turns back to take it, but Eli does not immediately let go of it; he waits until Kent meets his eyes, and then says, “If you need to talk about it, I’m here, okay? Not as PR, but as a person. Okay?”

Kent nods, and Eli lets go of his phone, letting Kent flee his office.

* * *

Kent has been home for half an hour when someone starts pounding on his front door. He grunts when he throws off his blankets and gets up from the couch, and as soon as he opens his door, he gets an armful of Carly. Kent sighs and wraps his arms around his friend, pressing his face into her hair.

“You didn’t have to leave work early,” he mumbles.

“I did,” Carly replies, and God, what did Kent ever do to deserve her?

When they shut the door and get inside, Carly joins Kent in his mass of blankets, their legs tangling as they sit at opposite ends of the couch. “You shut off your phone and everything, right?” she asks.

Kent nods. “There’s a _Modern Family_ marathon on ABC,” he says, nodding at his muted TV.

Carly’s eyebrows draw together. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

Kent shakes his head, and Carly nods. “All right,” she says, then looks around for the remote and snatches it off the coffee table. “Put the volume on, you’re missing all the jokes,” she chides half-heartedly, and Kent nudges her ankle with his own.

They watch several hours of _Modern Family_ , then switch to _Friends_ re-runs. They are not Kent’s usual TV choices, but then again, the TV Kent usually watches is on ESPN or NBCSN or some other variant of _sports_ , and Kent does not want to run the risk, today, of hearing someone talk about Jack’s coming out like they know anything about Jack or anything about coming out in a professional sports league.

Around six o’clock, Carly gets up and scavenges around Kent’s kitchen to make something that can pass for dinner – in other words, microwave hot dogs and easy mac. They eat on the couch, and Kent is pushing around his last few bits of hot dog when he says, “Zimms came out.”

Carly freezes with a forkful of mac and cheese halfway to her mouth. “Yes,” she says, uncertain where Kent is going.

Hell if Kent knows, either. “He’s the first openly gay player.”

“Yes.”

When Kent does not say anything for a minute, Carly ventures to ask, “Have you ever thought about coming out?”

“Yes,” Kent immediately responds, then thinks twice. “No? No, _yes_. I have.”

“You sound a little confused.”

Kent snorts and shovels a piece of hot dog into his mouth. Once he has chewed and swallowed, he explains, “I’ve thought about it, theoretically. What the consequences might be, but also how much … _lighter_ , I guess, I’d feel.” He scratches his neck. “I’d never had a formal thought about actually doing it, though.”

Carly nods. Kent notices she is wearing small pearl earrings; they really suit her, he realizes. “Have you talked to Jack?” she asks.

“No.”

“Have you talked to Scott?”

“No.”

Silence falls again. When it becomes apparent that Kent has nothing more to say, for the moment, Carly goes back to eating. On the TV, Monica presents Joey with a cutting board of fake foreskins, and while Kent knows the laughter is canned, he still smiles at some of Joey’s antics. He is good-looking for a 90s guy, even if he is a bit on this side of too New York for Kent’s liking.

At nine o’clock, Kent leaves Carly in the living room and shuts himself in his bedroom. He sits on the edge of his bed and calls Jack’s apartment landline, heart beating wildly in his chest. As the phone rings, he takes several deep breaths to calm himself, and then –

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Kent croaks. He clears his throat. “Hey. It’s Kenny.”

For a moment, Jack is silent. Then: “You heard?”

“Watched it, actually.”

“Oh.”

This day seems to be filled with weighty silences. “So,” Kent eventually says, “the Southern boy, eh?”

That gets a small laugh out of Jack, and suddenly, all the tension leaves Kent. “Yeah, it’s Bittle,” Jack says, and he sounds so stupidly fond. Kent is jealous, but even more than that, he is happy for Jack. Things might have gotten real fucked up when they were in the Q, but Kent has never doubted that Jack deserves to be happy.

“You doing all right?” Kent asks. “Both of you?”

“Eh. Bittle is going a little stir-crazy, because George – she’s part of the Falcs PR – made us turn off our phones, and Bittle is addicted to Tweet or whatever –”

“ _I heard that!_ ” Kent hears someone shout in the background of Jack’s line, and Kent laughs along with Jack.

“The rest of my team already knew,” Jack continues, and wow, yet another surprise today that steals away Kent’s oxygen. “So we’ll just have to wait until October to find out how everyone else handles it.”

Kent nods, even though he knows Jack cannot see him. “Congrats to you two.”

“Thanks.”

There is not really anything else to say, so after another wordless thirty seconds, Kent says, “Well. Just wanted to check in.”

“You know I won’t say anything about us, right?” Jack asks, concern overt in his tone.

“Yeah,” Kent says, and really, he had not even thought about Jack saying anything about their ongoing … tryst during juniors. That is not the type of person Jack is. “Tell Bittle I want to try some of his lemon bars, sometime.”

“Is that a euphemism, Parse?” Jack jokes, and Kent barks a laugh.

“Only if he wants it to be.”

“Bye, Kenny,” Jack says, and Kent can hear the smile in Jack’s voice.

“Bye, Jack.”

He hangs up and leaves his bedroom. He wanders around until he finds Kit, picks her up from where she is napping on a window sill, and brings Kit back to the living room. Carly turns when she hears Kent approaching. “I found _Inglourious Basterds_ ,” she says enthusiastically as Kent sits down and places Kit in his lap.

“Is this another one of your dramatic, critically-acclaimed movies?” Kent asks.

“Do you mean is this a good, quality movie? Because if you do, then yes.”

Kent gives a put-upon sigh, and Carly rolls her eyes even as she pokes Kent’s calf with her toe. Kent scratches Kit’s neck until she is purring loudly, and Kent falls asleep to the image of Carly watching the movie, the TV casting different color lights on her intent yet peaceful expression.

* * *

Over the next few days, Kent talks to his mother and to his sister and to Henders. Each conversation is slightly different, but none of them are particularly dramatic, which is a relief for Kent. Kent is not one for drama. Gradually, he starts turning on his electronics; his first order of business is to follow Eric Bittle on Twitter, then Tweet a general congratulations to Jack (the old man still does not have a Twitter of his own), and then make a supportive post from Kit’s Instagram account (a photo of Kit with a Pride button pinned to her collar, captioned #PurroudOfYou). Kent does not spend too much time scrolling through social media, but for the most part, people seem supportive or at least tolerant of Jack. Kent remembers Carly asking, _Have you ever thought about coming out?_ and he starts to think _maybe_. Maybe he could.

* * *

The season starts, and the Aces open with a bang – a seven-game win streak that is snapped by a gritty game at the American Airlines Center against Dallas. Kent is not even that bothered by the loss, this early in the season; the Stars helped expose some of the weaknesses his team needs to work on, and it is so much _fun_ to watch and play against Benn and Seguin. After playing together for so many years, Kent and Romi have established a strong on-ice rapport, but they just do not have that mutual instinct that Benn and Seguin seem to share.

Coming out is constantly in the back of Kent’s mind. He thinks about all the ways in which the closet has weighed down on him, has forced him to make decisions in his personal life that leave him unhappy and feeling like an asshole, and each day, coming out seems less terrifying and more relieving. It is not until early November that the scales finally tip, but once they do, it is a done deal. One day, after morning practice, Kent walks straight into Eli’s office and shuts the door behind him.

Eli is on the phone, and he holds up a finger for Kent to wait until he is done. When he does hang up, he turns to Kent, a half-smile on his face, his lips already rounding to form what is always his first question, _What can I do for you_ , but Kent beats him to it:

“What do I need to do if I want to come out?”

Eli blinks, but then he takes the new information right into stride, and holy crap, does Kent love this man. He supposes that Eli is just doing his job, but … still.

There is about a week of Eli talking to the rest of PR, and Kent talking to PR, and Kent and PR talking to the GMs and the owner, and then the GMs and the owner _and_ PR _and_ Kent all talking to the coaching staff and the team. But once that is all worked out, much more smoothly than Kent expected it to go, he gets an interview arranged with a feature writer for _Sports Illustrated_ , and even the interview is simple – it is personal but not too personal, and when Kent reads the article before it is sent to print, he has no objections about it. 

By November 15, Kent is the second out player in the NHL, and he is almost suspicious of how easy it is.

* * *

Kent’s suspicions are proven right during the game the night after Kent’s article is released.

They are playing the Predators, and from the first period, it is clear that a couple of players have it out for Kent. Kent manages to avoid them without, for the most part, affecting his level of play, but being double-aware of his surroundings while on the ice is exhausting, and late in the second period, Kent gets boarded harshly in a two-on-one situation. Before Kent has even gotten up again, Sebs has dropped his gloves against the guy who hit Kent, and the rest of the Predators get the message.

It happens in their next game against the Wild, too; Strileckis chirps Kent far more aggressively than he usually chirps anyone, and though Kent lands a couple of good, completely legal hits on him, he does not shut up until Kiki gives him a beating. When Kiki gets out of the box, Kent punches his shoulder, and Kiki grins. “I’ll fight for my captain any day,” he says, and when Kent scores a goal on his next shift, he points at Kiki as soon as the puck crosses the goal line.

Their following games against the Canucks and the Rangers are fine, but against the Penguins, Fassi fights a defender who gets exceptionally aggressive when cross-checking Kent. The media starts joking that the Aces must have recently been training in the boxing ring more than in the rink.

It all comes to head when the Aces travel to the Panthers’ home ice. 

It is a tight game – tighter than it should be, given that the Aces have regularly dominated since their Stanley Cup win and the Panthers have dragged in the last two years – and tensions are high on the ice. All night long, Kent has been hearing slurs from a few of the Panthers, and he knows how to play through that, to ignore whatever trash talk is being thrown his way, but early in the third, Kent gets a breakaway opportunity that is abruptly taken from him when he gets hit from behind – hit so hard that he goes flying and ends up sliding all the way into the end boards.

Kent’s ears are ringing, and the sudden roaring of the crowd does not help, but when he manages to sit up, he sees that the Aces and the Panthers are all crowded close to each other, with the exception of Romi and Isakov, who have lost their helmets and their gloves and are whaling on each other in front of the Panther’s net, right around where Kent got hit. Isakov is a pretty huge guy and has been known to win fights before, but somehow, Romi seems to be winning, and by the time the refs pull them apart, Isakov has a bloody nose.

“I know Russia ain’t down with the rainbow, but this is America, asshole!” Romi screams even as he is herded towards the penalty box. “Get over yourself!”

A trainer comes onto the ice to see Kent, but Kent waves them off and skates to his bench himself. He might have tweaked his right shoulder in that collision, and suddenly, he feels exhausted by all of this. Jack did not have this problem, or at least not that Kent has heard of, but then again, Jack _did_ soundly beat up Faecher in the Falcs' third game of the season after the Arizona defender made one homophobic comment too many on the ice.

The Panthers game (which the Aces lose in a shoot-out) is the last of a long roadie, so the team flies back out to Vegas the next morning. Kent is immediately summoned to PR, and somehow Kent is not surprised to see Eli awaiting him in the conference room Kent has been sent to.

“The higher-ups are concerned that the entire roster is going to get a fighting major by the end of the month for the sake of defending you,” Eli says bluntly.

Kent drags a hand over his face. He had a feeling this was coming. “I’ll talk to them at practice tomorrow,” he says, stifling a yawn.

Eli sighs. “I wish this wasn’t so difficult for you,” he says earnestly.

“Hey, at least my problem is over-protective teammates,” Kent responds. “I could be dealing with teammates who currently hate me.”

Eli smiles wearily. “That is true,” he says. His smiles morphs into a frown when Kent yawns again. “I had no idea why they forced you to come here now. Go home, Kent. Take a nap.”

Kent gets up and puts his hat back on. “Will do,” he says, and when he gets home, he only spares a minute to say hi to Kit before he crashes face-first onto his bed, without even changing his clothes.

* * *

Kent does have a talk with his team, stuttering out an awkward speech that essentially says, _Thanks for defending my honor or whatever, but the GMs are getting annoyed with all the penalty minutes_ , but it seems that Romi’s comment, which has been broadcasted all over news and social media, has sent the message to the rest of the world: if you screw with Kent Parson because he likes boys, you _will_ get fought by one of the Aces. No one bugs Kent on the ice for those reasons, and Kent can settle back into doing what he does best: completely owning the game of hockey. They sweep their homestead and though they lose a couple on their subsequent roadie, Kent has an eight-game point streak by the time they are back in Vegas.

The morning of their first home game against the Penguins, Kent wanders into Eli’s office, twirling a ring of tape around his fingers. “Hey,” Kent says, “I’ve been getting a crap-ton of e-mails from the _You Can Play_ Project –” He freezes, registering what Eli looks like. “Are you okay?”

Eli blinks rapidly and straightens up. “Yeah, completely,” he says, and that is the biggest lie Kent has heard in a while. Eli’s face looks drawn and pale, and he has dark bruises beneath his eyes.

Kent twists to shut the door to the office before sitting down opposite of Eli. “Seriously,” Kent says, “is everything okay? You look like hell.”

Eli gives him a humorless smile. “Thanks, Parson.”

Kent notices three empty cardboard cups from the Starbucks around the corner, and his eyes narrow. “Are you hungover?”

“Kent –” Eli starts to argue, but then his shoulders droop and he sighs heavily. “You’re not going to leave,” he says, the _unless I tell you something_ implied.

“Nope.”

Eli drags a hand over his face, his eyes sliding shut. “My boyfriend and I broke up last night,” he says succinctly. “It was mutual and a long time coming, but it still sucks and I drank a bit too much afterwards.”

Kent’s gaze drops to the roll of tape in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, uncertain what else to say. He did not mean to pry, he just – he was looking out for Eli, he guesses.

“I’ll be fine,” Eli says and then opens his eyes again. A faint smile curls his lips. “I’ll be even better if you beat the Pens.”

Kent grins as he stands. “You got it,” he says, waving as he leaves.

* * *

That night, Kent scores halfway through the third period, extending the Aces’s lead to three goals. They are on _fire_ tonight. As soon as the goal horn goes off, Kent skates up to the glass at the curve of the boards, cheering and grinning fiercely at Eli’s phone for the Aces’s Snapchat. In a second Romi and Fossi catch up to him, and Kent is squished into the boards by his celebrating teammates, but Kent can still see, from the corner of his eye, Eli laughing and smiling, looking much better than he did earlier that day.

* * *

About a year ago, Kent resigned himself to the fact that if PR sends Eli to him, Kent will get roped into whatever event the team wants him to go to, so when Eli approaches him a week after the Pens game, Kent sighs and feigns annoyance but agrees anyway to hang out with rich potential donors at a nearby casino in the name of raising money for cancer research. There will not even be real gambling at this event; they are occupying a single huge ballroom, and there will be dinner and a silent auction and a few card tables with fake chips in play.

As he usually does, Kent makes plans to take Carly, but the night before the event, Kent gets a call from Carly.

“Carls. What’s up?” Kent asks, taking a bite out of his protein bar. He tears off a piece and reaches down to offer it to Kit; Kit sniffs it and then pointedly turns her head away.

“Nice goal tonight.”

“Thanks.”

Carly takes a deep breath. “I hate to do this, but … can I possibly rain check tomorrow night?”

Kent frowns. “What’s up?”

“I mean, if you need me to go, I can cancel my other plans,” Carly quickly says, “or I could ask one of my friends to stand in as your not-date.”

“Carly!” Kent interjects, amused at this point. “What’s going on?”

Carly huffs. “I got asked out,” she finally says, “and I said yes and didn’t remember about the casino thing until an hour later –”

“Holy _shit_ , Carls,” Kent interrupts. “Like, a legitimate date?”

Carly giggles, giddy in a way that Kent almost never hears. “Yeah.”

“Who is it? Is it the Austrian skier?” Kent demands.

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Carly groans, fondly exasperated. “His name is Sandro.”

“Oh, right. _Alessandro_ , the European with the dreamy eyes.”

“Kent!”

Kent laughs. “Go,” he says. “Go on your date.”

“Do you want me to call one of my friends?” Carly offers.

“Nah. I can survive one night on my own.”

“All right. Thanks, Kent. Love you.”

“Love you too, Carls,” Kent says, and the line dies.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later, Kent is sitting blessedly alone at a dinner table in the casino ballroom, staring at his hands as he spins a toothpick between his fingers. He has been here for three hours, and he has another two to go, but he is already _so tired_. Kent gets along well with all of his teammates, but it is exhausting to deal with spouses and significant others (especially Kiki; damn, the man has a new girlfriend every two weeks). Any of the non-teammates Kent tries to talk to either snub him because he came out or will only talk to him about coming out, and Kent is on the verge of screaming. He did not come out so his entire identity would be replaced by a neon flashing sign reading _GAY_.

“Hey, Kent – you hanging in there?”

Kent blinks back to the present. Eli is standing before him, and _damn_ , that suit must be custom-tailored. “I’m fine,” Kent says, and Eli pulls out the chair next to him.

“You gave up on the hair gel, huh?”

Kent automatically pushes a hand back through his hair. “The hair does what it wants,” Kent intones gravely, and Eli smiles. “Get anything for your social media?”

Eli nods and unlocks his phone to show Kent an Instagram post of Fassi and Sebs and their wives standing next to their signed sweaters, one of the paired items in the silent auction. “The Snapchat also has a video of Kiki balancing poker chips on his forehead,” Eli says, and Kent snorts. 

Eli tucks away his phone and fixes Kent with a serious look. “You know I’m going to have to coax you out of this corner.”

Kent drops his head back. “Socializing gets exhausting.”

“I know. But we can’t have the captain brooding alone in a corner.”

Kent narrows his eyes at Eli. “I don’t brood.”

“All right, Cap,” Eli agrees sarcastically. “How do you feel about gambling?”

“Not a huge fan.”

“Check out the silent auction already?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you met Zarena Faucher, yet?”

The name does not sound familiar. Kent shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Awesome. I’ll introduce you two.”

Kent makes a noise of disagreement and opens his mouth to protest, but Eli holds up a hand. “I promise, you’re going to like her,” Eli insists. “I’ll give you two more minutes here, okay? But then we’re going to find Miss Faucher.”

Kent stares at the ceiling for a moment before looking at Eli. “Fine,” he says, and when Eli grins triumphantly, Kent cannot help smiling back a little.

* * *

Kent breaks two of his fingers in their game against Montreal. It is no one’s fault – a slap-shot clips Kent’s hand as it whistles towards Lieberenz’s net, and the pain is so strong and instant that Kent actually falls on the ice. He skates to his bench at the next stoppage in play, cradling his hand to his stomach and breathing heavily through his nose. He goes to see a trainer, and as soon as they are pronounced broken, Kent is put on injured reserve for an indefinite period of time. The coaches want him to be one-hundred percent for the playoffs, so they opt to be cautious with Kent right now.

The Aces enter the holiday break third in their division, and even though some of their roster is flying out of Vegas for Christmas, enough of the team sticks around that they hold a friends-and-family-of-the-Aces private free-skate on their home ice. Louisa and his mother cannot make it, but Kent still goes, his left hand in a protective cast. He pulls on the obnoxious hockey-themed holiday sweater that Louisa got him two years ago (the green and white monstrosity has lines of stick-wielding gingerbread men, penguins, and snowmen) and catches a ride with Kiki and Kiki’s twin younger brothers.

The rink is all tripped out with colored lights and tinsel, and Mariah Carey is on the surround-sound. Kent hangs out with Romi and Aurora for a bit and gets to hold the newest Romanski, a tiny boy named Edmund, and when Carly arrives, Kent finally gets to meet Sandro. Sandro is quieter than Kent expected, and though he has been stateside for a while, he still has his Austrian accent, and when he looks at Carly, he looks absolutely charmed.

On the ice, Kent interacts with his teammates’ kids more than his actual teammates; he leads long chains of the kids down the ice, pulls along Lieberenz’s doll of a three-year-old daughter (she speaks better German than English and has her father’s large blue eyes), and races Fassi’s sons round and round the rink until even Kent is panting a bit. At that point he notices Eli standing in the Aces bench, and Kent glides up to him, pulling up sharply right at the boards.

“Hey,” Kent says, grinning lazily.

“Hey, yourself,” Eli replies. He holds up his phone, and Kent poses for him, arching an eyebrow and smirking slyly. Eli takes the photo and shakes his head, saying, “That’s going on the Snap and Insta.” 

Kent rests his hips against the boards and, looking down, notes that Eli is wearing skates. “Can you skate?” he asks.

Eli snorts. “Of course.” He is still fiddling with his phone. “I may have been a trackie in college, but I was running up in Maine. Skating was essential in order to graduate.”

“Then what are you doing in the bench?” Kent asks.

Eli waves his phone. “Kind of doing my job.”

“Oh, come on,” Kent says. “You’ve probably taken a million videos and pictures already. You can take a break.”

Eli purses his lips, contemplating, and Kent reaches out to tug on the earflap of Eli’s hat. “Come on,” he says again, and Eli sighs.

“Fine. A few laps around.”

He pockets his phone, and Kent offers his good hand to help him over the boards. Once he is on the ice, Eli does not immediately take his hand away, so Kent laces their fingers together. “Now you can’t use your phone,” Kent says, and he knows that is a stupid thing to say – Eli is more than capable of using his phone one-handed – but Eli does not call him out on it, merely rolling his eyes as he and Kent start skating.

What starts as a couple laps turns into nearly an hour of skating together as they get talking. Kent has always liked Eli; even if Kent hates getting handed a crap-ton of PR assignments, mostly through Eli, Eli has always been kind and funny and hella persistent around Kent. 

He tells Kent about the utter catastrophe that was filming the Aces TV spot about Romi and his family; Edmund had been only a month old, and he was crying seventy-five percent of the time they were shooting. The baby also burped up on Romi in the middle of Romi very seriously discussing the Aces’s potential for a play-off run this season. Kent is happy to listen to Eli for as long as Eli wants, but eventually, Eli glances at his watch. “Oh, crap,” he says under his breath.

“Need to be somewhere?” Kent asks.

Eli sighs. “Yeah. Promised my brother I’d call him in half and hour.”

They come back to the Aces bench, and Kent lets go of Eli’s hand. Eli climbs over the boards and turns back to Kent. “Thanks,” he says, and Kent is not quite sure what Eli is thanking him for, so he just nods. “Rest that hand over the break, okay? Wouldn’t want to see you out any longer than necessary.”

Kent smirks. “All right, doc,” he says, then waves shortly and skates away, overwhelmed by Eli’s smile.

* * *

When the front door to Kent’s mother’s house opens, Kent has his arms full of Louisa before he can even get out a hello. “Kenny!” Louisa practically squeals, and Kent squeezes his little sister.

“Hey, Lou-Lou,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair.

Louisa drags him inside, and Kent drops his bag in the foyer before following Louisa to the kitchen. His mother is at the stove, and Kent bends down to kiss her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Mom,” he murmurs, and she pats his cheek before nudging him away.

“Let me cook, Kenny,” she scolds fondly, and Kent turns around just in time to see Louisa walk in with her _boyfriend_ in tow.

God, of _course_ he is taller than Kent. Louisa is five foot three; how is it that she always finds guys who are over six feet?

Regardless, Kent crosses his arms and sizes the guy up. “Who’s this?” he asks, even though he already knows the boyfriend’s name.

The guy looks a bit uncertain, but Louisa does not buy Kent’s act in the least; she rolls her eyes and pulls her boyfriend to the kitchen island. “Kenny, you know this is Thad,” she says. “Thad, this is Kent.”

Thad holds out a hand, and Kent grudgingly accepts it. He is wary; since _Roger_ , Louisa has had plenty of relationships, but more often than not, they seem to go sour. Maybe if Kent were around more, he would be able to warn Louisa away from the assholes; Kent is pretty good at figuring out the good guys from the bad.

Thad has a firm handshake that is not too tight, and he smiles nervously when he meets Kent’s eye. For such a tall guy, he is fairly built, so Kent asks, “Are you an athlete?”

“Yessir,” Thad immediately replies. “I was a quarterback when Louisa and I were at Amherst.”

“Oh, my god, Thad, don’t call him _sir_ ,” Louisa groans, and Kent grins.

“I like you, kid,” Kent says and claps his good hand on Thad’s shoulder.

Their Christmas is small, just the four of them, but Kent is used to small Christmases and would not have it any other way. They eat dinner and then open presents in front of a real fire in the real brick chimney, and Kent has to admit that Thad seems like a good person. At one point Kent and his mother leave to make hot chocolate, and when they return, Thad is sitting in the oversized armchair, and Louisa is curled in his lap, reading the novel that Thad got her. Thad is running his hand through Louisa’s hair, his nose pressed to her temple, and when he notices Kent looking, he smiles, and God, the holidays must be making Kent soft – he smiles back.

The next morning, they eat leftover apple pie for breakfast before driving out to the local skating pond. There are about a dozen other people at the pond and they are all locals, so no one bothers Kent, and Kent lets his mother curl her hand around his elbow as they skate in lazy circles.

“How have you been, Kenny?” his mother asks.

“Antsy,” he replies, lifting his left hand. He is in a soft cast, now.

“Do the doctors know when you can play again?”

“I can practice as soon as I get back. If it all goes well, I’ll be able to play before New Year’s.”

His mother squeezes his arm. “I’m excited,” she says, as enthusiastically as she had sounded when she was first encouraging Kent to wobble around on skates at age four.

“What about you, Mom?” Kent asks. “Louisa mentioned someone named … Clark?”

His mother honest-to-God _blushes_. “I don’t know _what_ Louisa has been telling you –”

“She says he makes you happy, Mom.”

He meant to be teasing, but instead, his statement comes out soft, and his mother gives him the gentlest smile. “He does,” his mother says simply. “What about you, Kenny? Are you happy?”

Kent thinks about Vegas, about Romi and his family, about Kiki’s weird-ass sense of humor, about Lieberenz’s thick German accent, about Carly, about his apartment that will never truly be rid of Kit’s fur, about Elijah Jones’s easy smiles and sharp eyes. For the longest time, Kent thought of himself as a New York boy, but he is realizing, now, that he has been a Vegas man for several years. The deserts of Nevada belong to him as much as a rink and a puck do.

“I’m getting there,” Kent tells his mother, and she leans into his side, craning her neck to kiss his cheek.

* * *

Their first game after the break is in Boston, and for the first time in several weeks, Kent gears up with the rest of his team for their morning skate in TD Garden. His hand feels absolutely fine, and the amount of relief he feels about _that_ is staggering. The trainers do not clear him for game play quite yet, but Kent can wait a few more days. He thinks.

Luckily, he does not have to test his patience for much longer – only four days later, Kent is thrown back into the lineup for a home game against the Sharks. Kent does not play as well as he would have liked to – honestly, he is a bit too enthusiastic about being back and ends up all over the place – but Kiki has an incredible game, and the come out with the win. Kiki gets the first star of the game, and Kent ruffles his sweaty hair when they are undressing in the locker room.

On the evening of the 31st, Carly and Sandro pick up Kent from his apartment and drive him to the Aces annual New Years’ party at the _Roma_ , one of Vegas’s more famous hotels. Sandro plays his crappy Euro-pop trash, and Kent does not complain about it once, so he rewards himself with a glass of Aurora’s father’s whiskey as soon as they get to the party. Kent does not want to get drunk tonight, though, so after the whiskey, he switches to water as he goes from teammate to teammate and simply enjoys himself. He plays a round of blackjack against Romi and some of the rookies, loses a game of billiards to Carly, and destroys absolutely everyone who challenges him to darts.

A few minutes before midnight, Kent ducks out of the main party room and escapes to the deserted outdoor patio, thought it feels weird to call it a patio when it is eighteen stories above the ground. Vegas never gets too cold in the winter, but at night,  the temperature can dip to the low thirties, so Kent, wearing nothing more than a dress shirt and a light sports jacket, shivers a bit. His breath fogs in the crisp city air.

“Avoiding the party?”

Kent turns towards the voice; it is Eli, who slides the patio door shut again and joins Kent to lean against the metal railing and look out at the city.

“Nah,” Kent replies. “Just wanted a moment.” He almost says _alone_ , but stops himself when he realizes that he wants Eli to stay here.

Eli is Kent’s height exactly, and when he turns his neck to regard Kent, his brown eyes are perfectly level with Kent’s. He only looks at Kent for a moment, though; his eyes dart to Kent’s hand, and he asks, “How are the fingers?”

“They feel fine.”

Eli holds out a hand, and it takes Kent a couple seconds to realize that he is asking to see Kent’s fingers. Kent unfolds his arms and gives his hand to Eli, who gently takes Kent’s fingers in both of his hands and feels down Kent’s previously broken fingers. “There’s a knob here,” Eli says, rubbing over a small bump on the side of Kent’s middle finger.

Kent nods. He doubts Eli even notices, but the other man is so close that Kent’s nose is nearly in his hair. “I’m glad it’s not my fourth finger,” Kent jokes. “Would make finding a wedding ring real difficult.”

Eli smiles and lets go of Kent’s hand, withdrawing slightly. “You’re planning on getting married, some day?”

Kent stares down at the Vegas traffic. “Maybe,” he says. “If I were to find the right person, and if they wanted to.” He nudges Eli’s shoulder with his own. “What about you? You the marrying type?”

Eli snorts. “I didn’t know there was a _type_ ,” he says, “but … if I found the right person. Yeah.”

His voice is kind of wistful, and Kent wonders if Eli once thought he had found the right person. Kent remembers, from all those years ago, his mother comforting Louisa the summer before Kent moved to Vegas. _Sometimes, people just aren’t ready for love_ , she had said in her gentle voice. _They love too much, or they don’t love enough, or they don’t love each other at the same time_. Kent has thought about his mother’s words time and time again, and while he thinks she is right, he would also add another condition: sometimes, a person is not ready for love.

From inside, a countdown starts and grows louder as more people join in: _twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven_ …

“My younger sister,” Kent says, “She used to say that whoever you kissed at midnight, you’d be with them for the year.”

Eli hums thoughtfully. “Do you believe her?”

Kent shrugs. “She doesn’t really have the best track record,” he says drily, and Eli chuckles.

“I’m not all that superstitious,” Eli says.

“Neither am I,” Kent admits. “But I’m a competitive person.”

Eli’s lips curl. “Going to beat your sister?”

“Planning on it.”

They are facing each other now, and Kent reaches out to put his good hand on Eli’s hip, pulling the other man in until their foreheads are pressed together. He hears Eli’s breath catch, and Kent freezes.

“Are you serious about this?” Eli whispers.

Faintly, Kent registers the tail end of the countdown. _Eight, seven, six_ …

Kent licks his lips. “Yeah,” he responds quietly. “I’m serious.”

Eli reaches up and cradles Kent’s face in his hands. “All right,” he says, pressing his nose to Kent’s cheek.

They do not wait for the countdown to end. By the time the party inside is cheering with the strike of midnight, Kent is already welcoming the New Year with a heart open and ready to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to hide that I took Kent's broken fingers from what happened to Brendan Gallagher earlier this season (So glad he is finally back … Montreal has been missing him, big time).
> 
> Thank you for sticking by this story all this time! Kudos and comments are much appreciated.


End file.
